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historizeTitle: The World is Changing
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
historyblitz
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, Canada, England, France, Australia, New Zealand, Russia, Poland, Germany, Ukraine--basically everyone
Rating: Thematic R, violence
Warnings: Nuclear war. Russia is demonized and then humanized. This is another one that isn't quite finished. It's quite sad.
Eventually tweaked and posted.
England sat frozen in his chair. He could only watch.
It had really happened. It had actually happened. His fingers gripped into the arms of his chair. He was numb. England had seen many, many things in his long life but this was one thing he hoped he never would.
All the big city news crews were gone. They had all been wiped out. New York, Chicago, Dallas, Las Vegas, Saint Louis, San Francisco, Houston, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Philadelphia, Miami….they were gone in a flash of white-hot light. So he was viewing the ruins of New York via a rather brave crew in Hazmat suits from Bridgeport.
There were some hits north too…so Canada had likely gotten a side of this as well. Had Russia aimed for Canada on purpose or were they by accident? Had he simply missed? Why Canada?
There were images of Russian cities too. Moscow, Saint Petersburg, Samara, Omsk, Chelyabinsk, Kazan….all smoking rubble.
At the desk in the office, England’s boss was sitting. “What….what should I do?” He said, voice rather faint as the images paraded across the screen. “This has never happened before…”
England stood. He looked at him. “Have a meeting with your staff and get some nuclear scientists in here. Snap out of it. You need to take command. The United States is your ally. Find out if the Russian border-states are mobilizing.”
The Prime Minister nodded a little, looking faintly ill. “What are you going to do?”
England looked away. “I have to go there.”
The man jumped up. “You can’t--! That--!”
England already knew the arguments. It’s not as though any planes were going to be flying into that apocalypse. He already knew that and he already knew he could get sick. He could get hurt. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t watch these images and disassociate them from America and Canada. He and France had long ago discussed—in the midst of their many wars—what might happen if they died. Would they be reborn? Would their nations fall? But no one really knew. He’d never seen it happen. He didn’t want to see it happen.
He turned around and left his gaping boss behind. He called France. “Francis,” he said. “I’m going to Alfred. He and Matthew—“
“I’m already on my way to London, Arthur. I’ll pick you up.”
When France landed, England walked out to meet him. They exchanged glances, not words and silently got into the jet. France had two pilots in the cockpit and they were stern-faced, though pale.
“As soon as you get someone asking you for clearance, we will come up and handle that. Keep alert, given what has happened, they may not ask questions. Do you understand?” England said in French and peered down at the men.
They nodded.
When England sat down, he saw France try and smile. “Your pronunciation has improved, Arthur.”
“Shut up. I don’t suppose either of them called?”
France shook his head. “Nothing from either of them…Spain did call though and said he was on his way as well—going to Mexico and Cuba. Apparently, a few of his bombs missed Alfred's southern cities and hit Mexico's northern ones. Germany, Italy, Austria and Poland are preparing to mobilize in case of Russian attack.”
“And the Baltic states?”
“I’ve heard nothing from Lithuania, Estonia or Latvia but…Estonia is close to Saint Petersburg. Things are likely in chaos over there. All countries are clearing their airspace.”
England looked away, narrowing his eyes at the wall.
France watched him but did not bother to try and console him. He knew it would fall on deaf ears anyway. Besides, France was just as worried.
Thankfully, the French pilots did get an inquiry. They weren’t shot down right away. England hurried to the cockpit and demanded clearance to land at Langely Air Force Base and as soon as he gave his name, Arthur Kirkland, it was granted. The small staff did not know exactly who he was—just some sort of diplomat from London but the important people—the generals and so on, did.
France spoke to his pilots on the ground as a small group came out to the landing strip to meet them. England went straight to the highest rank person but France paused to arrange fuel for the jet and give his pilots instructions to head back to Europe.
England’s chin tilted up and his eyes became hard as he approached the uniformed men and women. He did not bother with any sort of greeting. “Where is he?”
There was no question to who he was referring.
“We tracked his location to a hospital in Wisconsin. He was in Chicago when the strikes came. When they found him, he was airlifted over the border. We've arranged for a guided flight.”
“I want someone to find out where Matthew Williams is.”
The man nodded. “We have people working on it. They are checking every hospital registry.”
“Is your president still alive?” France asked.
There were some somber glances. “We’re not sure yet. We haven’t heard.”
“Well, you should know the Eastern Europe is preparing for war,” France told them, looking unnaturally grave. “England and I have already made arrangements to send aid. As soon as we send word back that we landed safely, you can begin making arrangements for when and how you want them to come. So make sure your people are checking with the flight crews they are tracking.”
“We will, Sir. If you could come this way.” The man led France and England to another jet. “You will be escorted by three fighter pilots. The base in Madison has already been informed of your arrival”
“Good. Let us leave and go do your job.”
The silence hung heavy over France and England as they flew on to Madison. France directed any updates on Canada to come directly to him because the closer they got to Wisconsin, the more tense England became and he might simply snap if the staff bothered him too much.
England was good at war but he was a lousy diplomat. Luckily, France was pretty good at it and managed to keep any raised voices at bay. By the time they landed, England was feeling nauseous but he smothered it and hurried off the plane.
Another small, ragged group met them on the landing strip and England wasted no time with them, demanding a helicopter escort to the hospital.
The city itself was rather lucky in that it had not been attacked. It had emptied anyway, though. So the streets were ghostly, except for the whirl of helicopter blades and the tires of ambulances as they brought people in—mostly from Chicago.
They landed on top of the building and hurried inside.
England had been in sorry shape during the plague. He remembered how hard it had been to breath. The terrible sores. The rotting flesh and unlike his people who, mercifully died—England never did. To these young countries that had never experienced plague—would their plague be nuclear attack instead? The thought made him more then uneasy.
He had been uneasy when America had grown up so brash and strong and had challenged Russia. And Russia, who perceived the boy as young and silly but indeed, a threat. That had made him uneasy but, America was free to conduct his own politics. It was not England’s place to insert an opinion. Russia did not underestimate England, after all—they had warred before but…when it came to America and Russia…two large powers and both the unofficial representatives of democracy and communism…a conflict was likely inevitable.
England had hoped though, that neither would have been crazy enough to actually launch nuclear missiles. America, he could almost see making the mistake—as he was young and idealistic and these weapons seemed more normal to him. But America did, at his core, want to help others. Nuclear weapons brought only death. He remembered, after World War Two, how America had sat in his office after seeing the images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki….
“Do you regret it?” England had asked.
“No,” he’d responded. “He attacked my harbor….and this ended the war quickly.” America looked down, his eyes disturbed. “I feel bad though…I don’t like this method…”
England had nodded, relieved because that showed that America was still sane.
“I hope this never happens again.”
England hurried into the hospital room. He breathed in sharply and didn’t exhale. Beside him, France made a soft sound and then hurried forward to the bedside. “Alfred?” France looked down into his face.
America’s left eye was bandaged over, as was most of his face. His right eye looked glazed and haunted. The boy’s body was wrapped in gauze too. Most of it was bloody.
A doctor had followed them inside and she was explaining that a huge portion of Mister Jones’ body was covered in burns and they were treating for radiation poisoning. France only half-heard it. He said, “Can he speak?”
The doctor looked somber. “He has made some sounds but nothing we can interpret. Mostly, we’ve been having him blink once for yes and twice for no.”
France looked to the soldiers who had escorted them inside. “Keep Doctor Miller updated—if you hear about Matthew Williams, I want a call. If he’s able, I want him brought here.”
The men nodded and left with the doctor.
France looked down at America. “Alfred, can you hear me?”
That blue eye shifted and blinked once.
France glanced up at England and did a double take. “Arthur!” he said sharply, snapping his fingers. “Come here.”
England seemed to suddenly return from a thought, a rather disturbed expression that didn’t look any better for it as he approached the bedside. He was hesitant to look…
….but he did, peering into America’s face. “Alfred….” He said, quietly.
America shifted and his blue eye focused on him and he tried to make sound. England put a hand on his chest. “Calm down, Alfred,” England told him. “You won’t get better by pushing yourself. Francis and I are sending aid as we speak and your people are hunting down Matthew. If he’s stable, he’ll be brought here.”
That blue eye widened and England could almost read his expression. America’s concern for his brother was all over his face. He tried to move again, seeming badly to want to communicate. Shifting, disrupting the instruments and bandages.
“Alfred—stop—Alfred! Stop it!”
France reached across the bed and grabbed England’s collar. He jerked it roughly. “The boy wants to communicate that badly with you. Don’t brush him off now. He needs you. Let’s think of a way.” He looked down at America. “Do you remember Morse Code, Alfred?”
One blink.
“He can’t blink out Morse Code,” England snarled.
France looked about ready to slap him. “You insufferable, cold-hearted, tea-drinking bastard. If you’re just going to be unhelpful then get out and I’ll sort him out.”
England looked down, fists clenched.
France glared at him for another moment and then relented. It was obvious to him that England was in pain and, as always, handled it badly. That was just England’s way. He looked at America. “Can you move your fingers, Alfred? Think you can hold a pencil?”
America’s fingers moved a little and France nodded. “Good, good. I’m going to put a pencil in your fingers and you tap out what you want to say on the metal guard on the bed, okay?”
France did so, placing the eraser end between America’s thumb and forefinger. He then turned America’s hand to that it was lying palm up. All America had to do was move his thumb a little and the pencil would tap the bed guard.
France sat beside the bed and got a pencil and pen to write out the letters and then checked them with America, just to be certain. When he finished his first message, France frowned deeply, looking almost regretful. He showed it to England.
It was a very simple message. Just: SORRY.
England looked down at him and nodded. “Everything will…work out in some way or another. You just need to get strong again.”
The next one was: MATTHEW
England shook his head. “He was attacked too. We don’t know anything else yet. About him or the condition of Mexico. We think he just missed your southern cities and hit Mexico's northern ones by mistake.”
Then: RUSSIA
England shot a look at France and then back at America. “You hit his large cities, just like he hit yours. It’s in chaos, just like you.”
WAR
England nodded. “Likely. Germany, Italy, Austria and the others are mobilizing in case of Russian attack.”
DEATH COUNT
“Too soon to tell. Likely in the millions.”
America looked away, clearly distraught. He started to shake. Neither France or England said a word at the tears that came next. They just sat with him, in silence, as the day passed into night.
Canada had been in Nova Scotia when the attacks came. Of course, it made sense in a way. Canada was America’s closest ally, physically. He and America looked out for each other and what was it Canada had said?
We won’t let Russia intimidate us. Us, as in him and America. Together.
Had it been a Prime Minister? Which one had it been? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it had been said. And so he warranted an attack as well. Russia was crazy but not so crazy that he couldn’t see the problem if Canada retaliated. And Canada would have, almost by default, England and the Commonwealth behind him. It didn’t matter. Russia had seen enough blood to fight a million wars for a million countries for a million days. Two little upstarts. It was time to take care of the elder and put down the younger. Russia turned Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, Ottawa and Calgary into rubble. Less strikes in Canada than in the United States. Teach the younger a lesson. Give him a warning. Stand by your brother and this is what Russia will do.
Canada’s government instantly closed their airspace and their borders and he was rushed to a hospital in the area. When they figured out who he was, they sent up the red flag and the government found him, placing two agents by his room.
They were getting round-the-clock updates—or trying to—or what was happening in the Unites States. So they knew, within about an hour, that England and France had arrived in Virginia.
When word came that England wanted Canada brought into the Unites States, his government initially refused. They didn’t want him traveling yet until they were certain he was all right and they certainly didn’t want him getting hurt if Russia attacked again.
That night, he came to. He had broken bones, torn muscles and terrible burns, but he agreed to go to America the next morning and, escorted by Canadian pilots, he landed in Madison too.
He refused a wheelchair, leaning heavily on crutches and, with the help of a bodyguard, entered America’s room. Both France and England were awake, looking grim. France jumped up when Canada entered.
“Matthew,” he said and hurried to him. “Are you all right?” He touched his hair and face and arms. “God, Matthew. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I am. Please stop touching my shoulders.” He looked back him. “Is Alfred…”
“He’s alive and hanging on, as your brother is want to do.”
England approached then, looking over him. “Matthew…”
Canada nodded, voice raspy. “I’m okay.”
“Alfred was very worried about you. It’ll do him well to know that you’re all right.”
He nodded. “I fared a bit better. Fewer of my cities were taken.” He was shaking slightly but he steadied his voice. How many of my people? How many? How many…? “I’ve been getting hourly reports since I woke up. Have you been watching the news?”
“What happened?” asked France. He slipped an arm around Canada and dismissed the bodyguard with a flick of his eyes.
“Fighting has broken out along the Russian border—the Red army attempted to take the Baltic states and they prepared more nuclear weapons to do so. Poland, backed by Germany and Austria went into Russia about two hours ago. Italy is preparing to join them. Spain is heading back to Europe and plans to mobilize as soon as he returns, I think.”
“What about the Middle East?”
“They haven’t declared one way or another. Japan and China are preparing to take Russia from the east and south. Western Europe, the Baltic states, the Scandinavians are coming from the west and northwest. My military is massing on the Alaskan/Russian waterway. England, your military has extended an offer to American troops who wish to fight. The rest are staying to help clean-up and aid.”
England had expected declarations of war from all sides and he nodded at this information.
“France…your government is waiting for your judgment before they move—although your civilians and military are already preparing for it.”
France nodded. “Thank you, Matthew.”
A low groan was heard from the bed and America was shifting, clearly having heard Canada’s voice.
France stepped out to call his government. England helped Canada to the bed. “He’s been communicating in Morse Code. Tapping a pencil against his bed.”
Canada leaned over America and was almost surprised to see the frank relief. America moved his heavily bandaged hand and grabbed onto Canada’s sleeve. Canada took his hand and did not mention the tears he saw. “My doctors are going to my cities that were hit but others are joining up with battalions of my military to help your people, okay?”
America blinked, though his eye and the strength of his grip showed his thanks.
It was two weeks before America could start removing bandages. The war in Europe was violent and fierce. Russia was besieged on all sides, not because all of them necessarily loved America or Canada but Russia had clearly lost his mind for real.
Canada stayed with his brother at all times. They started to heal together, leaning on and helping each other. When America’s face was finally unwrapped, the boyish innocence was completely gone. The sight in his left eye was dim. His hair had grown back but his face was scarred. When he first tried to speak, his mouth was gummy and would bleed and so he’d gone into surgery to repair the structure damage.
When he awoke from that, it was as if he’d aged a century.
Both brothers had massive scarring on their shoulders and backs but America’s stretched down his chest, and over his arms and legs and hands. He stood one day, in front of the mirror and stared for a long moment. Finally, he said, “We can’t war like this. There will be no people left if we do.”
Canada nodded. “A few were used when Europe retaliated. Russia bombed Poland, Ukraine and Germany.”
“Ukraine, even?”
“Yeah, Ivan’s lost it completely, I think.”
“Is Ludwig okay?”
Canada smiled a bit. “Germans are always ready to stand and endure. He’s pretty shaky but he’s okay. I think he lost an eye.”
“And Felix?”
Canada smiled faintly and stood next to him in the mirror. “You know Poland. He never stays down long. He’s recovering. Mostly, he was mad because his hair got singed.”
America nodded. His eye met Canada’s in the mirror. “Matthew…I’m…this…all of this…is my….”
Canada blinked, suddenly knowing what America wanted to say before he could get it out. “Alfred…now isn’t the time for that, okay? Don’t worry.”
America stared into the mirror, his left eye dim but his right clear and haunted. He didn’t answer.
Six months later, the war ended and Russia beaten, the nations of the world all sat at a summit table.
Poland was looking no worse for wear, as he kept his scars covered, except for his throat, jaw, and left ear where he couldn't hide them. He flipped his cropped hair. “Dude, my hair needs to totally hurry up and grow back.”
“It’ll take time, Felix,” Lithuania said, a small smile on his lips.
“Oh, come on, Liet. I know my own hair! I think Russia put anti-hair growth or something in those bombs. Taking way too long.”
“Felix, that’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid! Your mom is stupid!”
Lithuania just raised an eyebrow.
“You should totally see your face right now. It’s so funny!”
Ukraine’s pretty face was marred with scars, as were her hands and arms. She had stopped wearing dresses and now always wore military uniforms and black gloves. Her eyes gave away nothing. She had been through much in her history and her mourning of her brother and her people was entirely private to her. Not even Belarus approached her any longer. (Strangely, the only one who did was Prussia. His country had been abolished but the idea of him could not be, so he was still known to leave Germany’s house sometimes. Oddly enough, he was the only one weird enough to bother Ukraine. Even more peculiar was that she tolerated it.)
Germany’s hair was sleek and combed but longer than it usually was. (Poland had expressed anger and jealousy that Germany’s had grown longer before his did.) The side of his face was scarred and he had, indeed, lost an eye. He now wore a patch over it, with the Iron Cross embroidered in the leather. He was still stern and tough and fearsome, though the image was softened when Italy would hover over him. Austria was also always close by, harping about this and that but never really too annoyed.
Canada fiddled with his glass of water. His scars were still red and ragged up and down his back and shoulders, just visible under the collar of his shirt. He body always felt stiff; he was thinner and leaner, prone to chewing on his fingernails. He'd kept himself trimmed and clean-shaven. He seemed to be the only one out of the five of them that had not taken scars to his face. (France had been happy for him, at least.)
America took his place between England and Canada. His hair had grown out, matching his France’s for length. He didn’t shave regularly anymore, leaving his face in a permanent shadow. His left eye had not quite recovered yet and so he wore transition lenses so it would not be so obvious. His clothes hung on him but he refused to get new ones. His presence completely changed.
How often had England badgered America about his carefree nature? How often had he called him stupid and wished he would grow up? How long had he looked at that youthful arrogance, idealism and desire to help everyone with an eyeroll? And now, as the meeting went on quietly, with no spontaneous interruptions, no harebrained ideas to keep things interesting (and to keep others from falling asleep) and no whimpering about food…England suddenly found that he missed it. He shouldn’t have. He knew that. He was much, much older than America. He had seen a lot more. He should have been proud of the change but somehow…he wasn’t. It just made him a little bit somber.
When France told him a joke, America would just smile. He hardly laughed anymore. He didn’t eat enough. Too much stress and America put his fingertips to his temples and tried to concentrate more, though a raging migraine was inevitable. He hardly ever told jokes anymore. His clothes were always ragged. His face seemed hollow. He didn’t sleep much. The vibrant young man was gone, replaced by this shell who was more efficient, more mature and more reserved but also…sadder. Not himself any longer.
A wall seemed to have sprung up between him and England. England could deal with him when he was being loud and obnoxious but…he couldn’t seem to connect with this other America. The two of them could once communicate with just a glance and now they could hardly look at each other. England wasn’t sure how to handle this and so he treated America like the other countries. He was carefully distant and formal. The first time he had done so, America had paused and looked at him for a long moment, somehow seeming sadder, the lines in his face became deeper but then took up his cue and treated him the same. They sat next to each other at meetings but it was as if they were strangers.
The only one who seemed able to talk to America at all, was Canada. Their relations with each other, as well as their people had grown closer since the bombings. They were hardly apart at meetings and one was always visiting the other at home. They had healed together, leaning on each other for support. They both had had to accept foreign aid, especially America—which had stripped his pride down to the bare. Canada had rallied to his brother and America returned that with all his heart. He could not seem to outwardly show much affection anymore but, somehow, Canada understood all the same.
Strangely, it reminded him of England. Though, really, that shouldn't have surprised him at all.
France had kept his personal opinions to himself though he did often ask Canada how he and America were doing. The changes were regretful but not surprising. As the world changed, so did nations. That was just life.
At his turn to take the floor, America stood and quietly gave a very thorough and compact speech that hit all his important points. Canada backed him up on new plans for getting rid of nuclear waste and weapons and stood up as well to share the recent slew of ‘green’ technology that they had developed jointly. At the end, they smiled at each other and with that, the meeting was over. Japan approached to congratulate them on their finds. And all three spoke for several minutes about the auto industry with Germany.
England lingered by his chair and then turned away, heading to his room. France lazily meandered to follow, eventually catching up with him. “You know—“
“Leave it, Francis.”
France looked sidelong at him. “All right but you must be aware that the longer you pretend that you’re happy he’s grown up and so long as he relies on Canada—you’ll just avoid each other.”
“If only I could avoid you with such ease.”
France smiled and shrugged. “Have it your way but he’s not made of stone like you.” And he vanished down another hallway.
England silently damned him and went into his room.
“Arthur was watching you a lot today,” Canada muttered, getting himself a glass of water.
America sat down heavily on the couch. He got tired so easily still. “I know. You think he’d be proud. This is how he always wanted me to be, I think.”
“I think he misses how things were.” Canada sat down across from him. “But he’d never admit it.”
America was quiet for a long moment. “I’m not sure I could go back to that even if I wanted to…”
Canada reached over and touched his shoulder. “It’s all right, Alfred.”
America nodded a little. “I know…” He ran his fingers through his hair.
“You should talk to him, Alfred.”
“I don’t know what to say…”
“Go offer him a hamburger.”
America smiled a little and looked up at him.
“He was the first to head our way after the attack. He and Francis hunted you down. You and Arthur sit next to each other like you’ve never met.”
“Things feel different now.”
“That’s because they are.”
But America didn’t talk to him. It would be three months before he saw England again.
It was a beautiful winter day. America was standing outside Canada’s house, having just finished shoveling the snow out of his driveway for him. His chest felt tight but not horribly so. It was much improved from a month earlier. He tossed the snow shovel down and knelt in the yard, making a large ball.
Am I recovering?
He formed a snowman but couldn’t seem to put a face on it. He just knelt beside it and looked at the whiteness for a long time.
“Alfred…?”
He blinked and looked up. “Matthew. Morning.” He stood up.
Canada handed him a mug. “Brought you out some coffee. Your snowman needs a face.”
America chuckled and scratched his cheek. “I can’t think of what face to give it.”
Canada removed his red scarf and wrapped it around the neck of the snowman. “There. Maybe that’s all he needs.”
“So it’s you with no face?”
Canada laughed. “You can see whatever face you want.”
America was quiet again, looking at the faceless snowman. He smiled ruefully to himself and reached up. He made two holes for the eyes and then thick eyebrows with pine cones. “Preoccupied with the meeting tomorrow, I guess.”
Canada nodded. “C’mon. I made breakfast. You need to eat something.”
That night, America had a nightmare. He was prone to, at times, have violent flashbacks of wars and other affairs. It made sense that he’d have ones about the bombing too.
He jumped awake in bed. Sweat was pouring down his face. Panting, fingernails digging into his skin. He groaned, flesh suddenly sparking and crawling with heat. His eyes started to burn. He moaned, mounting into a scream.
His door slammed open in a flash and Canada was running in. “Alfred!” He grabbed him but America hurled him off, his old strength rearing back like a horse. America wheezed, choked and fell to the floor.
Canada hit the mirror and it shattered around him. His shoulder seized in objection and he lay on the floor for a moment, getting his bearings. When America fell, he got up and stumbled to him. “Alfred?”
“Sorry….” America murmured into the floor. “Had a….bad dream. Y’okay?”
“M’fine, c’mon…help you up.”
America groaned a little when Canada pulled his arm over the younger shoulders. America grabbed onto the bed and managed to stand…and then paused…
Canada looked up at him, glasses skewed. “What is it?”
“My hands,” America said, staring at them as if he’d never seen them before.
“Do they hurt?”
“No…,” his tone was slightly awed. “They don’t hurt at all…they feel…” He clenched his fingers and then unclenched them in rapid succession. “…they feel strong.” A smile like Canada hadn’t seen in almost a year came over America’s face. And then faded. “Christ, I threw you into the mirror. I’m sorry.”
Canada waved it off and helped him sit back on the bed and fixed his blankets. He had slept in the same bed with his brother many times since the bombings, especially right after it happened, when America trusted no one else. But now, he decided that maybe they both could use the company. He got into the other side of the bed. America smiled, silently thanking him with his eyes and curled up with him as if they were little kids again.
They left Canada’s house early the next morning. They landed in London in the afternoon and went to the meeting compound. America entered with a small smile, shoulder-to-shoulder with Canada. England was standing in the meeting room, greeting nations as they entered and helping Germany set up a few charts. When Canada and America approached, England stood up and faced them, that regal look to his jaw.
Canada shook his hand and greeted him. England was almost surprised by the warmth he found in Canada’s eyes. When he turned to America, he saw him quietly waiting his turn—and was suddenly reminded of when they were children and would draw pictures and demand to know who had done the better one—and found warmth there too. America clasped his hand and lifted the other, placing it on England’s shoulder.
“Arthur,” America said, searching his face.
England could feel some of the strength that had returned to America and how the boy’s eyes sought something from him. England couldn’t stop the little smile. “Alfred.”
“I wish you could see your face right now,” France was suddenly sidling up to England, putting an arm around his shoulders. “You’d just die. Really.”
England instantly glowered, shooting him a dark glare and elbowing him in the stomach. France wheezed with the strike but laughed at the same moment. England turned back to America, flustered but the younger nation just clapped England’s shoulder. “We’ll talk later?”
England paused, looking at him, and nodded. “Yes, that’s fine.”
America seemed less tired and more attentive during the meeting. Canada was cheerful and talkative. Weirdly, it made England think of Finland and Sweden but that made his eye twitch and he tried not to think about that too long.
When the meeting ended, Canada stood to talk to Australia and America stood to wait for England, who was exchanging notes with Lithuania and then the two nations walked out together.
Neither America or England said anything until they were standing in the hall, in front of England’s door.
“Come in if you like,” England said to the doorknob as he turned it. “I’ll make tea.”
America followed him inside and shut the door and then reached out, putting a hand on England’s arm. “Arthur…”
England glanced back. “What is it? Did you want coffee?”
America shook his head and pulled England to him. He enveloped his elder in a hug, resting his forehead on England’s shoulder.
England tensed, suddenly finding his nose pressed against America’s collarbone. “Alfred…are you all right?”
“Will you and Francis come to my house for Christmas?”
England nodded. “I can’t speak for Francis but I will.
He shook a little. “Thank you.” He curled into England, clinging, and a choked laugh escaped him. “I missed you.” His voice cracked on the double ‘s’.
England blinked in surprise and then his eyes fell when he saw the tears. “Alfred…” He hugged him tightly.
“I never thanked you when you came.”
“You couldn’t speak.”
“But I…” he trailed away. “I meant to.”
“I understand.”
America’s nose was full of the scent of England’s starched shirt. His hands were grasping at his shoulders. “Th-thank you.” He shuddered, biting his lip.
England held him while he cried.
“Blimey, but it’s cold here,” Australia muttered.
“Quit being a baby,” New Zealand laughed and shoved him.
“Oi!”
“Boys,” England said, looking exasperated. “Save it until we get to Alfred’s house.”
“Yes, boys,” said France, crisply, “listen to your mummy.”
England threw him a dirty glare. Australia and New Zealand burst out laughing. “Does that mean you’re Da’?” Australia asked, attempting to hold onto Howard.
“Oi, that’d be right,” said New Zealand. “Canada, and all—bastard love child.”
England made a tiny, enraged sound and glared at France, as if it were his fault.
“Their words,” said France, trying not to laugh, “not mine.”
Australia high-five’d New Zealand and then had to run when Howard escaped his grip. “Oi! Oi! Howard! Get back here, y’louse!”
New Zealand whooped and joined in.
“Oi!” England sighed. “Bugger those boys. Oi!” He yelled again. “Alfred’s house is down the next corner! Catch that damn bear! I won’t help you get it back if it ends up in the zoo!”
“It’s a koala!” Australia called back and dove. There were yelps from some pedestrians when the two tanned, khaki-dressed men grabbed the animal.
They stood up together. “Howard!” wailed Australia. “What’s up with you, mate?”
“Is that a koala?”
The two nations looked up.
Australia moved faster. He shoved Howard into New Zealand’s arms and stepped closer to the person, a young woman. “Oh, yes, love. It is. Ever seen one before?”
The girl stuttered for an answer. Australia closed in on her, smiling jauntily.
New Zealand raised a hand and whacked his brother over the head. “Leave ‘er be, mate. Alfred’ll skin you if you go about scarin’ ‘is women.”
The girl blinked and looked at him. “What? Who’s Alfred?”
“Nice job, y’dunce.” He turned back to the girl and took her hand. “My apologies, love. My brother and I aren’t used to this cold. New York is chilly. In Australia and New Zealand—it’s always balmy. You should join us some—“
“’Ey!” New Zealand whacked him again. “Come on or Howard will get loose again.”
“Sorry, darling.” He kissed her hand and turned back, yanking Howard away from New Zealand and hurrying after England and France.
New Zealand scowled and shoved him. “Stupid.”
“What’s wrong, Kiwi? Y’jealous!?”
“You wish! I could get more girls than you without tryin’!”
“Only if you paid ‘em!”
“Don’t confuse me for you!”
America opened his front door just in time for Australia and New Zealand to slam into France and England from behind. It catapulted the elder two forward and America just managed to catch them.
“Sorry!” Australia called cheerfully, which quickly turned dismayed as Howard got loose again and took off into America’s house. “Ah, damn!”
Somewhere inside, Canada yelped and there was a thump and a bang. “That damn koala!”
Australia put out his hands and New Zealand sprang up, planting his feet on them. The elder brother launched the younger one over America’s, France’s and England’s heads so he could tackle Canada. “Elder brother!” sang New Zealand. “How are you!”
Australia made a useless gesture to dust some imaginary dirt from England’s coat. “Sorry, old man? Y’still with us?”
England brushed him off. “Belt up, boy.”
“Why are your kids insane?” France huffed as America helped straighten his lapels.
“Bullocks if I know.” He started to remove his coat, which America took over his arm. “Ireland had a hand in it, I reckon.”
“Thanks for coming, both of you.”
The sincerity in his eyes made England forget his irritation. “Forgive me for not better controlling your younger brothers.”
America smiled. “They wouldn’t be them if they weren’t wild. It’s fine. Matthew and I put away all the breakables.”
“Smart move,” said France, handing his coat to America as well.
America walked off to go hang their coats up, snagging New Zealand’s as he went by. Australia followed him, removing his own. At the closet, he spoke, “How are you doing, Alfred?”
America put a hanger in England’s coat and smiled. “Better. Glad you came, y’know.”
He had always gotten along pretty well with Australia. Though they were on opposite sides of globe, America had found it a bit easier to relate to him sometimes. Australia had been marked as a penal colony, where the British Isles sent their criminals. He had put up with being the disdain of England and had eventually grown up to want his own government. Where Australia played rugby, America played his football. The rest of Europe flicked their noses at the rough and jaunty nations.
By the time he had found out about Australia, of course, he had declared his independence. It wasn’t until 1770 that Australia had even been claimed for England. America hadn’t heard much about him until his war with England was over almost eleven years later. So he hadn’t met him for a long, long time. He had feared it might be awkward but when he finally met his younger brother Australia had joked and clapped him on the shoulder. America had been delighted to find that, unlike Canada, Australia seemed to share his sense of humor.
Australia grabbed a hanger and shrugged. “Well, what kind of brother would I be to refuse? I expect you to come by for me birthday. And no complaining about the ruddy heat.”
America chuckled. “You bet. Wouldn’t miss it.” He clapped Australia on the shoulder and they walked into the dining room. “How’s Zealand been?”
Australia grinned and made sure to catch New Zealand’s eye. “Troublesome as always, of course.”
“Oi, what are you on about?”
“Big brother asked how you were doin’. I was only answerin’.”
“I’m not troublesome. You’re more of a pain than me.”
America reached out and grabbed New Zealand, rubbing his knuckles in his hair. “Price you pay for being the youngest brother. Suck it up.”
Australia burst out laughing. “What’s that mean then? We can gang up on the eldest?” And he leapt on America. “C’mon, Zea! Let’s take him!”
Canada yelped and dodged out of the way as they lurched into the kitchen, America trying to fend them off and Australia and New Zealand clinging like limpets.
England smiled, a strange affection on his face that France had never quite seen before.
“So that’s why you wanted colonies,” France murmured, lifting a hand and gently touching England's shoulder. “You look happier right now than you did during any war.”
England glanced over at him and his smile grew, slightly sheepish and embarrassed and then faded. “These boys drive me mad but I’d be mad without them.”
France laughed. “There’s a romantic in you yet, Arthur. Must be from your pirate days.”
England elbowed him. “Shut it or I’ll cook something.”
France lifted his hands in surrender, grinning and made a zipping motion over his mouth. “I’m too young to die.”
Far to the east, in a cold and lonely cell, Russia leaned against the wall.
Belarus was watching. She was sitting in the cell with him, in fact. Her tears were silent.
Blood slipped from the corners of Russia’s mouth. He was smiling, looking almost at peace. “A flower,” he murmured, “sister mine. Tell Ukraine I’m sorry.”
Belarus trembled. “Elder brother...”
“I have seen enough blood.” His hand wavered, limping up to his face, smearing the blood across his cheek. “Even when there is peace, there is no peace for me.”
Belarus’ hands curled up in her dress.
“There has been much change. Change needs a catalyst.”
“You did so,” said Belarus, subdued, quiet. “But they want to help you. So that nuclear war doesn’t touch us again.”
“I am changing, Natasha. I am tired. The old world is gone.”
Belarus stiffened. “N-no, brother, you…”
Russia turned his sparkling eyes on her, half his face smeared in red. “I am tired of the violence. The world is a dark place. Let the young nations destroy it. I am done with it.”
“Ivan…” Tears dripped down onto her dress. She made no move to wipe them.
“Good night, Natasha.”
She started to stand, shaking. “Ivan—no, Ivan--!”
“I want to be Ivan.” He twisted the knife in his gut; drug it up through his chest. He only smiled serenely, never showing a hint of pain. His breathing wheezed faintly and he sunk against the wall. “But, I cannot.”
The red, red, beautiful—stain spread up Russia’s ragged coat. He stopped pushing the knife when he reached the middle of his throat and then his hands slipped off, slick with blood. He was still smiling.
Belarus composed herself and turned away. She went out into the hall. Ukraine, the Baltics, Poland, and a few others were there. Belarus raised her eyes, mostly to Ukraine and said, “He is dead.”
Lithuania looked at the floor. Poland took his hand and squeezed it. Estonia and Latvia looked aside. They all did.
Except Ukraine, who looked back, eyes hard and said, “Good night.” She turned away and left. Outside, Prussia was waiting for her. She gave him an appraising look but he only smiled and offered his arm.
“My brother is dead,” she told him. “Don’t offer your arm to me.”
Prussia shrugged. “I don’t really care either way. Your brother was a pain in the ass.”
Her eyes were stony.
“Let’s go. Some places are still open. I’m hungry.”
He hadn’t invited her. He hadn’t even asked. She hadn’t asked him to come. She walked beside him anyway.
Belarus stayed at the cells for several hours, until the others had left. Only then did she go back to dress Ivan’s body.
Someone was already there.
“Who…?”
The figure turned. It was a child. He was dressed in white and looked entirely out of place in the dark, blood-covered cell. The child closed Ivan’s eyes and said, “Do you know what I am, Natasha?”
She did. Quite suddenly. Her heart yammered. “Yes.”
“Please take me home. To Moscow.” His eyes were pale and smoky-purple. Almost transparent. His hair was silver, almost white. “The world is changing.”
She nodded and held out her hand. He came to her, full of trust. “Things will be better, Natasha. Please don’t cry.”
“Of course not, little brother.” She did anyway.
Notes:
1.We won't let them intimidate us, is--in fact--a real quote said by a Canadian but be damned if I can remember who. And I can't find it online either. I just remembered the quote.
2. Look up the Black Death sometime. Ew.
3. The word red in Russian has a positive connotation and is referenced in words like beautiful. Which I learned from wikipedia and thought was interesting.
Author/Artist:
historyblitzCharacter(s) or Pairing(s): America, Canada, England, France, Australia, New Zealand, Russia, Poland, Germany, Ukraine--basically everyone
Rating: Thematic R, violence
Warnings: Nuclear war. Russia is demonized and then humanized. This is another one that isn't quite finished. It's quite sad.
Eventually tweaked and posted.
England sat frozen in his chair. He could only watch.
It had really happened. It had actually happened. His fingers gripped into the arms of his chair. He was numb. England had seen many, many things in his long life but this was one thing he hoped he never would.
All the big city news crews were gone. They had all been wiped out. New York, Chicago, Dallas, Las Vegas, Saint Louis, San Francisco, Houston, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Philadelphia, Miami….they were gone in a flash of white-hot light. So he was viewing the ruins of New York via a rather brave crew in Hazmat suits from Bridgeport.
There were some hits north too…so Canada had likely gotten a side of this as well. Had Russia aimed for Canada on purpose or were they by accident? Had he simply missed? Why Canada?
There were images of Russian cities too. Moscow, Saint Petersburg, Samara, Omsk, Chelyabinsk, Kazan….all smoking rubble.
At the desk in the office, England’s boss was sitting. “What….what should I do?” He said, voice rather faint as the images paraded across the screen. “This has never happened before…”
England stood. He looked at him. “Have a meeting with your staff and get some nuclear scientists in here. Snap out of it. You need to take command. The United States is your ally. Find out if the Russian border-states are mobilizing.”
The Prime Minister nodded a little, looking faintly ill. “What are you going to do?”
England looked away. “I have to go there.”
The man jumped up. “You can’t--! That--!”
England already knew the arguments. It’s not as though any planes were going to be flying into that apocalypse. He already knew that and he already knew he could get sick. He could get hurt. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t watch these images and disassociate them from America and Canada. He and France had long ago discussed—in the midst of their many wars—what might happen if they died. Would they be reborn? Would their nations fall? But no one really knew. He’d never seen it happen. He didn’t want to see it happen.
He turned around and left his gaping boss behind. He called France. “Francis,” he said. “I’m going to Alfred. He and Matthew—“
“I’m already on my way to London, Arthur. I’ll pick you up.”
When France landed, England walked out to meet him. They exchanged glances, not words and silently got into the jet. France had two pilots in the cockpit and they were stern-faced, though pale.
“As soon as you get someone asking you for clearance, we will come up and handle that. Keep alert, given what has happened, they may not ask questions. Do you understand?” England said in French and peered down at the men.
They nodded.
When England sat down, he saw France try and smile. “Your pronunciation has improved, Arthur.”
“Shut up. I don’t suppose either of them called?”
France shook his head. “Nothing from either of them…Spain did call though and said he was on his way as well—going to Mexico and Cuba. Apparently, a few of his bombs missed Alfred's southern cities and hit Mexico's northern ones. Germany, Italy, Austria and Poland are preparing to mobilize in case of Russian attack.”
“And the Baltic states?”
“I’ve heard nothing from Lithuania, Estonia or Latvia but…Estonia is close to Saint Petersburg. Things are likely in chaos over there. All countries are clearing their airspace.”
England looked away, narrowing his eyes at the wall.
France watched him but did not bother to try and console him. He knew it would fall on deaf ears anyway. Besides, France was just as worried.
Thankfully, the French pilots did get an inquiry. They weren’t shot down right away. England hurried to the cockpit and demanded clearance to land at Langely Air Force Base and as soon as he gave his name, Arthur Kirkland, it was granted. The small staff did not know exactly who he was—just some sort of diplomat from London but the important people—the generals and so on, did.
France spoke to his pilots on the ground as a small group came out to the landing strip to meet them. England went straight to the highest rank person but France paused to arrange fuel for the jet and give his pilots instructions to head back to Europe.
England’s chin tilted up and his eyes became hard as he approached the uniformed men and women. He did not bother with any sort of greeting. “Where is he?”
There was no question to who he was referring.
“We tracked his location to a hospital in Wisconsin. He was in Chicago when the strikes came. When they found him, he was airlifted over the border. We've arranged for a guided flight.”
“I want someone to find out where Matthew Williams is.”
The man nodded. “We have people working on it. They are checking every hospital registry.”
“Is your president still alive?” France asked.
There were some somber glances. “We’re not sure yet. We haven’t heard.”
“Well, you should know the Eastern Europe is preparing for war,” France told them, looking unnaturally grave. “England and I have already made arrangements to send aid. As soon as we send word back that we landed safely, you can begin making arrangements for when and how you want them to come. So make sure your people are checking with the flight crews they are tracking.”
“We will, Sir. If you could come this way.” The man led France and England to another jet. “You will be escorted by three fighter pilots. The base in Madison has already been informed of your arrival”
“Good. Let us leave and go do your job.”
The silence hung heavy over France and England as they flew on to Madison. France directed any updates on Canada to come directly to him because the closer they got to Wisconsin, the more tense England became and he might simply snap if the staff bothered him too much.
England was good at war but he was a lousy diplomat. Luckily, France was pretty good at it and managed to keep any raised voices at bay. By the time they landed, England was feeling nauseous but he smothered it and hurried off the plane.
Another small, ragged group met them on the landing strip and England wasted no time with them, demanding a helicopter escort to the hospital.
The city itself was rather lucky in that it had not been attacked. It had emptied anyway, though. So the streets were ghostly, except for the whirl of helicopter blades and the tires of ambulances as they brought people in—mostly from Chicago.
They landed on top of the building and hurried inside.
England had been in sorry shape during the plague. He remembered how hard it had been to breath. The terrible sores. The rotting flesh and unlike his people who, mercifully died—England never did. To these young countries that had never experienced plague—would their plague be nuclear attack instead? The thought made him more then uneasy.
He had been uneasy when America had grown up so brash and strong and had challenged Russia. And Russia, who perceived the boy as young and silly but indeed, a threat. That had made him uneasy but, America was free to conduct his own politics. It was not England’s place to insert an opinion. Russia did not underestimate England, after all—they had warred before but…when it came to America and Russia…two large powers and both the unofficial representatives of democracy and communism…a conflict was likely inevitable.
England had hoped though, that neither would have been crazy enough to actually launch nuclear missiles. America, he could almost see making the mistake—as he was young and idealistic and these weapons seemed more normal to him. But America did, at his core, want to help others. Nuclear weapons brought only death. He remembered, after World War Two, how America had sat in his office after seeing the images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki….
“Do you regret it?” England had asked.
“No,” he’d responded. “He attacked my harbor….and this ended the war quickly.” America looked down, his eyes disturbed. “I feel bad though…I don’t like this method…”
England had nodded, relieved because that showed that America was still sane.
“I hope this never happens again.”
England hurried into the hospital room. He breathed in sharply and didn’t exhale. Beside him, France made a soft sound and then hurried forward to the bedside. “Alfred?” France looked down into his face.
America’s left eye was bandaged over, as was most of his face. His right eye looked glazed and haunted. The boy’s body was wrapped in gauze too. Most of it was bloody.
A doctor had followed them inside and she was explaining that a huge portion of Mister Jones’ body was covered in burns and they were treating for radiation poisoning. France only half-heard it. He said, “Can he speak?”
The doctor looked somber. “He has made some sounds but nothing we can interpret. Mostly, we’ve been having him blink once for yes and twice for no.”
France looked to the soldiers who had escorted them inside. “Keep Doctor Miller updated—if you hear about Matthew Williams, I want a call. If he’s able, I want him brought here.”
The men nodded and left with the doctor.
France looked down at America. “Alfred, can you hear me?”
That blue eye shifted and blinked once.
France glanced up at England and did a double take. “Arthur!” he said sharply, snapping his fingers. “Come here.”
England seemed to suddenly return from a thought, a rather disturbed expression that didn’t look any better for it as he approached the bedside. He was hesitant to look…
….but he did, peering into America’s face. “Alfred….” He said, quietly.
America shifted and his blue eye focused on him and he tried to make sound. England put a hand on his chest. “Calm down, Alfred,” England told him. “You won’t get better by pushing yourself. Francis and I are sending aid as we speak and your people are hunting down Matthew. If he’s stable, he’ll be brought here.”
That blue eye widened and England could almost read his expression. America’s concern for his brother was all over his face. He tried to move again, seeming badly to want to communicate. Shifting, disrupting the instruments and bandages.
“Alfred—stop—Alfred! Stop it!”
France reached across the bed and grabbed England’s collar. He jerked it roughly. “The boy wants to communicate that badly with you. Don’t brush him off now. He needs you. Let’s think of a way.” He looked down at America. “Do you remember Morse Code, Alfred?”
One blink.
“He can’t blink out Morse Code,” England snarled.
France looked about ready to slap him. “You insufferable, cold-hearted, tea-drinking bastard. If you’re just going to be unhelpful then get out and I’ll sort him out.”
England looked down, fists clenched.
France glared at him for another moment and then relented. It was obvious to him that England was in pain and, as always, handled it badly. That was just England’s way. He looked at America. “Can you move your fingers, Alfred? Think you can hold a pencil?”
America’s fingers moved a little and France nodded. “Good, good. I’m going to put a pencil in your fingers and you tap out what you want to say on the metal guard on the bed, okay?”
France did so, placing the eraser end between America’s thumb and forefinger. He then turned America’s hand to that it was lying palm up. All America had to do was move his thumb a little and the pencil would tap the bed guard.
France sat beside the bed and got a pencil and pen to write out the letters and then checked them with America, just to be certain. When he finished his first message, France frowned deeply, looking almost regretful. He showed it to England.
It was a very simple message. Just: SORRY.
England looked down at him and nodded. “Everything will…work out in some way or another. You just need to get strong again.”
The next one was: MATTHEW
England shook his head. “He was attacked too. We don’t know anything else yet. About him or the condition of Mexico. We think he just missed your southern cities and hit Mexico's northern ones by mistake.”
Then: RUSSIA
England shot a look at France and then back at America. “You hit his large cities, just like he hit yours. It’s in chaos, just like you.”
WAR
England nodded. “Likely. Germany, Italy, Austria and the others are mobilizing in case of Russian attack.”
DEATH COUNT
“Too soon to tell. Likely in the millions.”
America looked away, clearly distraught. He started to shake. Neither France or England said a word at the tears that came next. They just sat with him, in silence, as the day passed into night.
Canada had been in Nova Scotia when the attacks came. Of course, it made sense in a way. Canada was America’s closest ally, physically. He and America looked out for each other and what was it Canada had said?
We won’t let Russia intimidate us. Us, as in him and America. Together.
Had it been a Prime Minister? Which one had it been? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it had been said. And so he warranted an attack as well. Russia was crazy but not so crazy that he couldn’t see the problem if Canada retaliated. And Canada would have, almost by default, England and the Commonwealth behind him. It didn’t matter. Russia had seen enough blood to fight a million wars for a million countries for a million days. Two little upstarts. It was time to take care of the elder and put down the younger. Russia turned Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, Ottawa and Calgary into rubble. Less strikes in Canada than in the United States. Teach the younger a lesson. Give him a warning. Stand by your brother and this is what Russia will do.
Canada’s government instantly closed their airspace and their borders and he was rushed to a hospital in the area. When they figured out who he was, they sent up the red flag and the government found him, placing two agents by his room.
They were getting round-the-clock updates—or trying to—or what was happening in the Unites States. So they knew, within about an hour, that England and France had arrived in Virginia.
When word came that England wanted Canada brought into the Unites States, his government initially refused. They didn’t want him traveling yet until they were certain he was all right and they certainly didn’t want him getting hurt if Russia attacked again.
That night, he came to. He had broken bones, torn muscles and terrible burns, but he agreed to go to America the next morning and, escorted by Canadian pilots, he landed in Madison too.
He refused a wheelchair, leaning heavily on crutches and, with the help of a bodyguard, entered America’s room. Both France and England were awake, looking grim. France jumped up when Canada entered.
“Matthew,” he said and hurried to him. “Are you all right?” He touched his hair and face and arms. “God, Matthew. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I am. Please stop touching my shoulders.” He looked back him. “Is Alfred…”
“He’s alive and hanging on, as your brother is want to do.”
England approached then, looking over him. “Matthew…”
Canada nodded, voice raspy. “I’m okay.”
“Alfred was very worried about you. It’ll do him well to know that you’re all right.”
He nodded. “I fared a bit better. Fewer of my cities were taken.” He was shaking slightly but he steadied his voice. How many of my people? How many? How many…? “I’ve been getting hourly reports since I woke up. Have you been watching the news?”
“What happened?” asked France. He slipped an arm around Canada and dismissed the bodyguard with a flick of his eyes.
“Fighting has broken out along the Russian border—the Red army attempted to take the Baltic states and they prepared more nuclear weapons to do so. Poland, backed by Germany and Austria went into Russia about two hours ago. Italy is preparing to join them. Spain is heading back to Europe and plans to mobilize as soon as he returns, I think.”
“What about the Middle East?”
“They haven’t declared one way or another. Japan and China are preparing to take Russia from the east and south. Western Europe, the Baltic states, the Scandinavians are coming from the west and northwest. My military is massing on the Alaskan/Russian waterway. England, your military has extended an offer to American troops who wish to fight. The rest are staying to help clean-up and aid.”
England had expected declarations of war from all sides and he nodded at this information.
“France…your government is waiting for your judgment before they move—although your civilians and military are already preparing for it.”
France nodded. “Thank you, Matthew.”
A low groan was heard from the bed and America was shifting, clearly having heard Canada’s voice.
France stepped out to call his government. England helped Canada to the bed. “He’s been communicating in Morse Code. Tapping a pencil against his bed.”
Canada leaned over America and was almost surprised to see the frank relief. America moved his heavily bandaged hand and grabbed onto Canada’s sleeve. Canada took his hand and did not mention the tears he saw. “My doctors are going to my cities that were hit but others are joining up with battalions of my military to help your people, okay?”
America blinked, though his eye and the strength of his grip showed his thanks.
It was two weeks before America could start removing bandages. The war in Europe was violent and fierce. Russia was besieged on all sides, not because all of them necessarily loved America or Canada but Russia had clearly lost his mind for real.
Canada stayed with his brother at all times. They started to heal together, leaning on and helping each other. When America’s face was finally unwrapped, the boyish innocence was completely gone. The sight in his left eye was dim. His hair had grown back but his face was scarred. When he first tried to speak, his mouth was gummy and would bleed and so he’d gone into surgery to repair the structure damage.
When he awoke from that, it was as if he’d aged a century.
Both brothers had massive scarring on their shoulders and backs but America’s stretched down his chest, and over his arms and legs and hands. He stood one day, in front of the mirror and stared for a long moment. Finally, he said, “We can’t war like this. There will be no people left if we do.”
Canada nodded. “A few were used when Europe retaliated. Russia bombed Poland, Ukraine and Germany.”
“Ukraine, even?”
“Yeah, Ivan’s lost it completely, I think.”
“Is Ludwig okay?”
Canada smiled a bit. “Germans are always ready to stand and endure. He’s pretty shaky but he’s okay. I think he lost an eye.”
“And Felix?”
Canada smiled faintly and stood next to him in the mirror. “You know Poland. He never stays down long. He’s recovering. Mostly, he was mad because his hair got singed.”
America nodded. His eye met Canada’s in the mirror. “Matthew…I’m…this…all of this…is my….”
Canada blinked, suddenly knowing what America wanted to say before he could get it out. “Alfred…now isn’t the time for that, okay? Don’t worry.”
America stared into the mirror, his left eye dim but his right clear and haunted. He didn’t answer.
Six months later, the war ended and Russia beaten, the nations of the world all sat at a summit table.
Poland was looking no worse for wear, as he kept his scars covered, except for his throat, jaw, and left ear where he couldn't hide them. He flipped his cropped hair. “Dude, my hair needs to totally hurry up and grow back.”
“It’ll take time, Felix,” Lithuania said, a small smile on his lips.
“Oh, come on, Liet. I know my own hair! I think Russia put anti-hair growth or something in those bombs. Taking way too long.”
“Felix, that’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid! Your mom is stupid!”
Lithuania just raised an eyebrow.
“You should totally see your face right now. It’s so funny!”
Ukraine’s pretty face was marred with scars, as were her hands and arms. She had stopped wearing dresses and now always wore military uniforms and black gloves. Her eyes gave away nothing. She had been through much in her history and her mourning of her brother and her people was entirely private to her. Not even Belarus approached her any longer. (Strangely, the only one who did was Prussia. His country had been abolished but the idea of him could not be, so he was still known to leave Germany’s house sometimes. Oddly enough, he was the only one weird enough to bother Ukraine. Even more peculiar was that she tolerated it.)
Germany’s hair was sleek and combed but longer than it usually was. (Poland had expressed anger and jealousy that Germany’s had grown longer before his did.) The side of his face was scarred and he had, indeed, lost an eye. He now wore a patch over it, with the Iron Cross embroidered in the leather. He was still stern and tough and fearsome, though the image was softened when Italy would hover over him. Austria was also always close by, harping about this and that but never really too annoyed.
Canada fiddled with his glass of water. His scars were still red and ragged up and down his back and shoulders, just visible under the collar of his shirt. He body always felt stiff; he was thinner and leaner, prone to chewing on his fingernails. He'd kept himself trimmed and clean-shaven. He seemed to be the only one out of the five of them that had not taken scars to his face. (France had been happy for him, at least.)
America took his place between England and Canada. His hair had grown out, matching his France’s for length. He didn’t shave regularly anymore, leaving his face in a permanent shadow. His left eye had not quite recovered yet and so he wore transition lenses so it would not be so obvious. His clothes hung on him but he refused to get new ones. His presence completely changed.
How often had England badgered America about his carefree nature? How often had he called him stupid and wished he would grow up? How long had he looked at that youthful arrogance, idealism and desire to help everyone with an eyeroll? And now, as the meeting went on quietly, with no spontaneous interruptions, no harebrained ideas to keep things interesting (and to keep others from falling asleep) and no whimpering about food…England suddenly found that he missed it. He shouldn’t have. He knew that. He was much, much older than America. He had seen a lot more. He should have been proud of the change but somehow…he wasn’t. It just made him a little bit somber.
When France told him a joke, America would just smile. He hardly laughed anymore. He didn’t eat enough. Too much stress and America put his fingertips to his temples and tried to concentrate more, though a raging migraine was inevitable. He hardly ever told jokes anymore. His clothes were always ragged. His face seemed hollow. He didn’t sleep much. The vibrant young man was gone, replaced by this shell who was more efficient, more mature and more reserved but also…sadder. Not himself any longer.
A wall seemed to have sprung up between him and England. England could deal with him when he was being loud and obnoxious but…he couldn’t seem to connect with this other America. The two of them could once communicate with just a glance and now they could hardly look at each other. England wasn’t sure how to handle this and so he treated America like the other countries. He was carefully distant and formal. The first time he had done so, America had paused and looked at him for a long moment, somehow seeming sadder, the lines in his face became deeper but then took up his cue and treated him the same. They sat next to each other at meetings but it was as if they were strangers.
The only one who seemed able to talk to America at all, was Canada. Their relations with each other, as well as their people had grown closer since the bombings. They were hardly apart at meetings and one was always visiting the other at home. They had healed together, leaning on each other for support. They both had had to accept foreign aid, especially America—which had stripped his pride down to the bare. Canada had rallied to his brother and America returned that with all his heart. He could not seem to outwardly show much affection anymore but, somehow, Canada understood all the same.
Strangely, it reminded him of England. Though, really, that shouldn't have surprised him at all.
France had kept his personal opinions to himself though he did often ask Canada how he and America were doing. The changes were regretful but not surprising. As the world changed, so did nations. That was just life.
At his turn to take the floor, America stood and quietly gave a very thorough and compact speech that hit all his important points. Canada backed him up on new plans for getting rid of nuclear waste and weapons and stood up as well to share the recent slew of ‘green’ technology that they had developed jointly. At the end, they smiled at each other and with that, the meeting was over. Japan approached to congratulate them on their finds. And all three spoke for several minutes about the auto industry with Germany.
England lingered by his chair and then turned away, heading to his room. France lazily meandered to follow, eventually catching up with him. “You know—“
“Leave it, Francis.”
France looked sidelong at him. “All right but you must be aware that the longer you pretend that you’re happy he’s grown up and so long as he relies on Canada—you’ll just avoid each other.”
“If only I could avoid you with such ease.”
France smiled and shrugged. “Have it your way but he’s not made of stone like you.” And he vanished down another hallway.
England silently damned him and went into his room.
“Arthur was watching you a lot today,” Canada muttered, getting himself a glass of water.
America sat down heavily on the couch. He got tired so easily still. “I know. You think he’d be proud. This is how he always wanted me to be, I think.”
“I think he misses how things were.” Canada sat down across from him. “But he’d never admit it.”
America was quiet for a long moment. “I’m not sure I could go back to that even if I wanted to…”
Canada reached over and touched his shoulder. “It’s all right, Alfred.”
America nodded a little. “I know…” He ran his fingers through his hair.
“You should talk to him, Alfred.”
“I don’t know what to say…”
“Go offer him a hamburger.”
America smiled a little and looked up at him.
“He was the first to head our way after the attack. He and Francis hunted you down. You and Arthur sit next to each other like you’ve never met.”
“Things feel different now.”
“That’s because they are.”
But America didn’t talk to him. It would be three months before he saw England again.
It was a beautiful winter day. America was standing outside Canada’s house, having just finished shoveling the snow out of his driveway for him. His chest felt tight but not horribly so. It was much improved from a month earlier. He tossed the snow shovel down and knelt in the yard, making a large ball.
Am I recovering?
He formed a snowman but couldn’t seem to put a face on it. He just knelt beside it and looked at the whiteness for a long time.
“Alfred…?”
He blinked and looked up. “Matthew. Morning.” He stood up.
Canada handed him a mug. “Brought you out some coffee. Your snowman needs a face.”
America chuckled and scratched his cheek. “I can’t think of what face to give it.”
Canada removed his red scarf and wrapped it around the neck of the snowman. “There. Maybe that’s all he needs.”
“So it’s you with no face?”
Canada laughed. “You can see whatever face you want.”
America was quiet again, looking at the faceless snowman. He smiled ruefully to himself and reached up. He made two holes for the eyes and then thick eyebrows with pine cones. “Preoccupied with the meeting tomorrow, I guess.”
Canada nodded. “C’mon. I made breakfast. You need to eat something.”
That night, America had a nightmare. He was prone to, at times, have violent flashbacks of wars and other affairs. It made sense that he’d have ones about the bombing too.
He jumped awake in bed. Sweat was pouring down his face. Panting, fingernails digging into his skin. He groaned, flesh suddenly sparking and crawling with heat. His eyes started to burn. He moaned, mounting into a scream.
His door slammed open in a flash and Canada was running in. “Alfred!” He grabbed him but America hurled him off, his old strength rearing back like a horse. America wheezed, choked and fell to the floor.
Canada hit the mirror and it shattered around him. His shoulder seized in objection and he lay on the floor for a moment, getting his bearings. When America fell, he got up and stumbled to him. “Alfred?”
“Sorry….” America murmured into the floor. “Had a….bad dream. Y’okay?”
“M’fine, c’mon…help you up.”
America groaned a little when Canada pulled his arm over the younger shoulders. America grabbed onto the bed and managed to stand…and then paused…
Canada looked up at him, glasses skewed. “What is it?”
“My hands,” America said, staring at them as if he’d never seen them before.
“Do they hurt?”
“No…,” his tone was slightly awed. “They don’t hurt at all…they feel…” He clenched his fingers and then unclenched them in rapid succession. “…they feel strong.” A smile like Canada hadn’t seen in almost a year came over America’s face. And then faded. “Christ, I threw you into the mirror. I’m sorry.”
Canada waved it off and helped him sit back on the bed and fixed his blankets. He had slept in the same bed with his brother many times since the bombings, especially right after it happened, when America trusted no one else. But now, he decided that maybe they both could use the company. He got into the other side of the bed. America smiled, silently thanking him with his eyes and curled up with him as if they were little kids again.
They left Canada’s house early the next morning. They landed in London in the afternoon and went to the meeting compound. America entered with a small smile, shoulder-to-shoulder with Canada. England was standing in the meeting room, greeting nations as they entered and helping Germany set up a few charts. When Canada and America approached, England stood up and faced them, that regal look to his jaw.
Canada shook his hand and greeted him. England was almost surprised by the warmth he found in Canada’s eyes. When he turned to America, he saw him quietly waiting his turn—and was suddenly reminded of when they were children and would draw pictures and demand to know who had done the better one—and found warmth there too. America clasped his hand and lifted the other, placing it on England’s shoulder.
“Arthur,” America said, searching his face.
England could feel some of the strength that had returned to America and how the boy’s eyes sought something from him. England couldn’t stop the little smile. “Alfred.”
“I wish you could see your face right now,” France was suddenly sidling up to England, putting an arm around his shoulders. “You’d just die. Really.”
England instantly glowered, shooting him a dark glare and elbowing him in the stomach. France wheezed with the strike but laughed at the same moment. England turned back to America, flustered but the younger nation just clapped England’s shoulder. “We’ll talk later?”
England paused, looking at him, and nodded. “Yes, that’s fine.”
America seemed less tired and more attentive during the meeting. Canada was cheerful and talkative. Weirdly, it made England think of Finland and Sweden but that made his eye twitch and he tried not to think about that too long.
When the meeting ended, Canada stood to talk to Australia and America stood to wait for England, who was exchanging notes with Lithuania and then the two nations walked out together.
Neither America or England said anything until they were standing in the hall, in front of England’s door.
“Come in if you like,” England said to the doorknob as he turned it. “I’ll make tea.”
America followed him inside and shut the door and then reached out, putting a hand on England’s arm. “Arthur…”
England glanced back. “What is it? Did you want coffee?”
America shook his head and pulled England to him. He enveloped his elder in a hug, resting his forehead on England’s shoulder.
England tensed, suddenly finding his nose pressed against America’s collarbone. “Alfred…are you all right?”
“Will you and Francis come to my house for Christmas?”
England nodded. “I can’t speak for Francis but I will.
He shook a little. “Thank you.” He curled into England, clinging, and a choked laugh escaped him. “I missed you.” His voice cracked on the double ‘s’.
England blinked in surprise and then his eyes fell when he saw the tears. “Alfred…” He hugged him tightly.
“I never thanked you when you came.”
“You couldn’t speak.”
“But I…” he trailed away. “I meant to.”
“I understand.”
America’s nose was full of the scent of England’s starched shirt. His hands were grasping at his shoulders. “Th-thank you.” He shuddered, biting his lip.
England held him while he cried.
“Blimey, but it’s cold here,” Australia muttered.
“Quit being a baby,” New Zealand laughed and shoved him.
“Oi!”
“Boys,” England said, looking exasperated. “Save it until we get to Alfred’s house.”
“Yes, boys,” said France, crisply, “listen to your mummy.”
England threw him a dirty glare. Australia and New Zealand burst out laughing. “Does that mean you’re Da’?” Australia asked, attempting to hold onto Howard.
“Oi, that’d be right,” said New Zealand. “Canada, and all—bastard love child.”
England made a tiny, enraged sound and glared at France, as if it were his fault.
“Their words,” said France, trying not to laugh, “not mine.”
Australia high-five’d New Zealand and then had to run when Howard escaped his grip. “Oi! Oi! Howard! Get back here, y’louse!”
New Zealand whooped and joined in.
“Oi!” England sighed. “Bugger those boys. Oi!” He yelled again. “Alfred’s house is down the next corner! Catch that damn bear! I won’t help you get it back if it ends up in the zoo!”
“It’s a koala!” Australia called back and dove. There were yelps from some pedestrians when the two tanned, khaki-dressed men grabbed the animal.
They stood up together. “Howard!” wailed Australia. “What’s up with you, mate?”
“Is that a koala?”
The two nations looked up.
Australia moved faster. He shoved Howard into New Zealand’s arms and stepped closer to the person, a young woman. “Oh, yes, love. It is. Ever seen one before?”
The girl stuttered for an answer. Australia closed in on her, smiling jauntily.
New Zealand raised a hand and whacked his brother over the head. “Leave ‘er be, mate. Alfred’ll skin you if you go about scarin’ ‘is women.”
The girl blinked and looked at him. “What? Who’s Alfred?”
“Nice job, y’dunce.” He turned back to the girl and took her hand. “My apologies, love. My brother and I aren’t used to this cold. New York is chilly. In Australia and New Zealand—it’s always balmy. You should join us some—“
“’Ey!” New Zealand whacked him again. “Come on or Howard will get loose again.”
“Sorry, darling.” He kissed her hand and turned back, yanking Howard away from New Zealand and hurrying after England and France.
New Zealand scowled and shoved him. “Stupid.”
“What’s wrong, Kiwi? Y’jealous!?”
“You wish! I could get more girls than you without tryin’!”
“Only if you paid ‘em!”
“Don’t confuse me for you!”
America opened his front door just in time for Australia and New Zealand to slam into France and England from behind. It catapulted the elder two forward and America just managed to catch them.
“Sorry!” Australia called cheerfully, which quickly turned dismayed as Howard got loose again and took off into America’s house. “Ah, damn!”
Somewhere inside, Canada yelped and there was a thump and a bang. “That damn koala!”
Australia put out his hands and New Zealand sprang up, planting his feet on them. The elder brother launched the younger one over America’s, France’s and England’s heads so he could tackle Canada. “Elder brother!” sang New Zealand. “How are you!”
Australia made a useless gesture to dust some imaginary dirt from England’s coat. “Sorry, old man? Y’still with us?”
England brushed him off. “Belt up, boy.”
“Why are your kids insane?” France huffed as America helped straighten his lapels.
“Bullocks if I know.” He started to remove his coat, which America took over his arm. “Ireland had a hand in it, I reckon.”
“Thanks for coming, both of you.”
The sincerity in his eyes made England forget his irritation. “Forgive me for not better controlling your younger brothers.”
America smiled. “They wouldn’t be them if they weren’t wild. It’s fine. Matthew and I put away all the breakables.”
“Smart move,” said France, handing his coat to America as well.
America walked off to go hang their coats up, snagging New Zealand’s as he went by. Australia followed him, removing his own. At the closet, he spoke, “How are you doing, Alfred?”
America put a hanger in England’s coat and smiled. “Better. Glad you came, y’know.”
He had always gotten along pretty well with Australia. Though they were on opposite sides of globe, America had found it a bit easier to relate to him sometimes. Australia had been marked as a penal colony, where the British Isles sent their criminals. He had put up with being the disdain of England and had eventually grown up to want his own government. Where Australia played rugby, America played his football. The rest of Europe flicked their noses at the rough and jaunty nations.
By the time he had found out about Australia, of course, he had declared his independence. It wasn’t until 1770 that Australia had even been claimed for England. America hadn’t heard much about him until his war with England was over almost eleven years later. So he hadn’t met him for a long, long time. He had feared it might be awkward but when he finally met his younger brother Australia had joked and clapped him on the shoulder. America had been delighted to find that, unlike Canada, Australia seemed to share his sense of humor.
Australia grabbed a hanger and shrugged. “Well, what kind of brother would I be to refuse? I expect you to come by for me birthday. And no complaining about the ruddy heat.”
America chuckled. “You bet. Wouldn’t miss it.” He clapped Australia on the shoulder and they walked into the dining room. “How’s Zealand been?”
Australia grinned and made sure to catch New Zealand’s eye. “Troublesome as always, of course.”
“Oi, what are you on about?”
“Big brother asked how you were doin’. I was only answerin’.”
“I’m not troublesome. You’re more of a pain than me.”
America reached out and grabbed New Zealand, rubbing his knuckles in his hair. “Price you pay for being the youngest brother. Suck it up.”
Australia burst out laughing. “What’s that mean then? We can gang up on the eldest?” And he leapt on America. “C’mon, Zea! Let’s take him!”
Canada yelped and dodged out of the way as they lurched into the kitchen, America trying to fend them off and Australia and New Zealand clinging like limpets.
England smiled, a strange affection on his face that France had never quite seen before.
“So that’s why you wanted colonies,” France murmured, lifting a hand and gently touching England's shoulder. “You look happier right now than you did during any war.”
England glanced over at him and his smile grew, slightly sheepish and embarrassed and then faded. “These boys drive me mad but I’d be mad without them.”
France laughed. “There’s a romantic in you yet, Arthur. Must be from your pirate days.”
England elbowed him. “Shut it or I’ll cook something.”
France lifted his hands in surrender, grinning and made a zipping motion over his mouth. “I’m too young to die.”
Far to the east, in a cold and lonely cell, Russia leaned against the wall.
Belarus was watching. She was sitting in the cell with him, in fact. Her tears were silent.
Blood slipped from the corners of Russia’s mouth. He was smiling, looking almost at peace. “A flower,” he murmured, “sister mine. Tell Ukraine I’m sorry.”
Belarus trembled. “Elder brother...”
“I have seen enough blood.” His hand wavered, limping up to his face, smearing the blood across his cheek. “Even when there is peace, there is no peace for me.”
Belarus’ hands curled up in her dress.
“There has been much change. Change needs a catalyst.”
“You did so,” said Belarus, subdued, quiet. “But they want to help you. So that nuclear war doesn’t touch us again.”
“I am changing, Natasha. I am tired. The old world is gone.”
Belarus stiffened. “N-no, brother, you…”
Russia turned his sparkling eyes on her, half his face smeared in red. “I am tired of the violence. The world is a dark place. Let the young nations destroy it. I am done with it.”
“Ivan…” Tears dripped down onto her dress. She made no move to wipe them.
“Good night, Natasha.”
She started to stand, shaking. “Ivan—no, Ivan--!”
“I want to be Ivan.” He twisted the knife in his gut; drug it up through his chest. He only smiled serenely, never showing a hint of pain. His breathing wheezed faintly and he sunk against the wall. “But, I cannot.”
The red, red, beautiful—stain spread up Russia’s ragged coat. He stopped pushing the knife when he reached the middle of his throat and then his hands slipped off, slick with blood. He was still smiling.
Belarus composed herself and turned away. She went out into the hall. Ukraine, the Baltics, Poland, and a few others were there. Belarus raised her eyes, mostly to Ukraine and said, “He is dead.”
Lithuania looked at the floor. Poland took his hand and squeezed it. Estonia and Latvia looked aside. They all did.
Except Ukraine, who looked back, eyes hard and said, “Good night.” She turned away and left. Outside, Prussia was waiting for her. She gave him an appraising look but he only smiled and offered his arm.
“My brother is dead,” she told him. “Don’t offer your arm to me.”
Prussia shrugged. “I don’t really care either way. Your brother was a pain in the ass.”
Her eyes were stony.
“Let’s go. Some places are still open. I’m hungry.”
He hadn’t invited her. He hadn’t even asked. She hadn’t asked him to come. She walked beside him anyway.
Belarus stayed at the cells for several hours, until the others had left. Only then did she go back to dress Ivan’s body.
Someone was already there.
“Who…?”
The figure turned. It was a child. He was dressed in white and looked entirely out of place in the dark, blood-covered cell. The child closed Ivan’s eyes and said, “Do you know what I am, Natasha?”
She did. Quite suddenly. Her heart yammered. “Yes.”
“Please take me home. To Moscow.” His eyes were pale and smoky-purple. Almost transparent. His hair was silver, almost white. “The world is changing.”
She nodded and held out her hand. He came to her, full of trust. “Things will be better, Natasha. Please don’t cry.”
“Of course not, little brother.” She did anyway.
Notes:
1.We won't let them intimidate us, is--in fact--a real quote said by a Canadian but be damned if I can remember who. And I can't find it online either. I just remembered the quote.
2. Look up the Black Death sometime. Ew.
3. The word red in Russian has a positive connotation and is referenced in words like beautiful. Which I learned from wikipedia and thought was interesting.
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no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 01:43 am (UTC)How I love your families? And I'm not just talking about the French-Anglophone ones?
If not, I shall remedy that and say, ILU. ILU SO HARD.
Oh God, Australia and NZ totally STOLE the show (OH BOYS. AND HOWARD!). They're so fucking adorable. Poland is BADASS. Germany is BADASS. HELL, everyone is badass (well, except Russia).
AND BELARUS AND PRUSSIA. WAT. NOW I SHIP IT.
And I love the interaction between Arthur and Alfred and AWWWW. Alfred is such a mommy's boy. *is shot* But I love how France is the one that makes sense when England is in pain, how Matthew just loves and supports his brother. It's just lovely!
*memories*
no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 01:30 pm (UTC)And France and England--I have such a spot for them--because the two of them are so contrary and yet, not. They balance each other out. And as much as they'd rather not see it--they really do seem to understand each other.
And I don't want Prussia to be gone--having him hang around with Ukraine was sort of random but I ended up liking it.
I feel like I really demonized Russia, so I tried to step away from that near the end--because the guy is off his rocker. He's been reborn as a child so maybe he'll be a bit better off.
Canadians and Americans are suppose to resent each other but I never really felt that way. So I love the two of them as being brothers who truly suppose and look out for one another. Because that's what siblings ought to do.
Thank you so much for always being so encouraging!!
no subject
Date: 2009-07-11 08:06 pm (UTC)I guess one other thing that got to me was America's pride being stripped from him upon being forced to accept foreign aid. And then Australia as the little brother he didn't grow up knowing, but instantly clicked with anyway...
Awesome.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-10 06:27 am (UTC)“Yes, boys,” said France, crisply, “listen to your mummy.”
England threw him a dirty glare. Australia and New Zealand burst out laughing. “Does that mean you’re Da’?” Australia asked, attempting to hold onto Howard.
“Oi, that’d be right,” said New Zealand. “Canada, and all—bastard love child.”
England made a tiny, enraged sound and glared at France, as if it were his fault.
“Their words,” said France, trying not to laugh, “not mine.”
You are encouraging my own plot bunnies XD
Any reason the koala's named Howard btw? Just curious.