[fanfic] Cling to War
Jul. 10th, 2009 09:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
historizeTitle: Cling to War
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
historyblitz, kept track of at historize
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, England, Canada, France, Australia, New Zealand, Prussia
Rating: thematic R
Warnings: some violence, mentions of the concentration camps and the war in the Pacific; England and Canada getting France out of Paris, some derogatory language
Summary: America copes badly with the brutality of WW2, Papa!England eventually throws pancake batter at him.
I found myself wanting to write after marathoning an amazing World War II miniseries called "Band of Brothers". It was awesome and I recommend it to anyone and everyone.
Eventually posted here
America went to the parties and he went to the celebrations. He was in the parade, at the front when the ships came in. He went to the wild bash in Europe—in Paris, in London, hell, everywhere.
But when America went home, he went alone. No one met him in New York. Oh, sure, the president was there but that didn’t count, not when he looked around at his boys and their girlfriends reuniting on the street. Not when the whole place was filled with unity and joy. With relief and happiness and victory.
So when America turned back and looked down through the skyscrapers of his city, watching the little bits of paper—like a colorful snow—he felt none of it.
He was suddenly back where he’d been. With a distinctive loneliness. For a moment, he closed his eyes and saw the others. Canada would be in Europe for a little while yet—having a good time with England and France, as he so deserved. He’d done very well. Australia and New Zealand would be there for a little while too. But America…he’d shipped out to Japan and when he came back, he found himself out of the loop. When England took him aside, pressed him if he was all right—
I dream about Japan, every night.
--America had done what he always did. He brushed him off. (“Course I’m fine! Got what he deserved!”) England had rebuked him (“You’re not fine. And you don’t mean that.”) And America had shouldered away. (“What’d’you care anyway? I’ll leave tomorrow if you want me gone.”) And he did.
I just wanted the war to end. But telling Japan that was useless.
But, he had a government to greet and arrangements to make. There was no time for loneliness or feelings. It was time to throw himself into his work before he started wishing there was still a war. (He didn’t…right?)
He took out a pack of cigarettes and pressed his tongue in it; it stuck and he drew one out into his mouth and lit it.
Of course he didn’t. America got into a car with his boss and his men and looked out the windows. It was a perfect day. Perfect. Blue skies, chalky clouds and a breeze off the bay.
No weapons touched his mainland.
Of course he didn’t want war.
That night, he sat in his empty house with no one but the picture frames—dusty—for company. He’d been unnecessarily cruel to England. Cruel to them all after he’d come back from Japan. All cutting remarks and silences. The only one who had brushed it off, had been France.
Good old fucking France. He was a bastard, an opportunist; a leisurely, vain, arrogant, sardonic son of a bitch but. He was still one of the best guys America knew. He wasn’t like Prussia, who endeared himself to you one moment and then fucked you over the next. He wasn’t like England, who you thought, for just a glimmer, really was the best guy you ever met—and then he’d do something fucking stupid, like ask about Japan, bitch about why America hadn’t joined the war sooner, or get all weird and sad like parents whose children have finally moved out. (Empty nest syndrome. He wasn’t going to be able to keep India.) He wasn’t like Russia, who would act all crazy on you over something ridiculous (Baltics, what was it with him?). He wasn’t even like Canada, who could do amazing things on a battlefield but fuck all for anything else. He was. France.
France. Who never looked at life too seriously—because life was so bitter that he’d only be able to become resentful and bitter himself if he did—so he laughed. He kept a comment ready. He was brutally honest. He was an asshole sometimes but he made no pretense that he was anything but. And when America had lashed out at him, France had smiled in that maddening way of his and asked him, “Well, sounds like you need a bit of a night away, America~. Come have a cigarette and wine with me and we’ll put your problems to bed, yes?”
“You’re such a dick.” But America hadn’t been able to help but smile.
“That is what I like to hear.”
“Laughter? Or that you’re a dick?”
He had winked. “I’ll let you decide.”
And that was why he’d wanted to save France.
When the Germans had taken Paris, France had stayed, refusing to abandon his city in a rare show of mocking pride. Under the occupation, God only knew what had happened to him—Germany had come sometimes. Prussia at other times. France never said what they did to him.
Though, if it was Prussia, it wasn’t a difficult guess. America knew that he and France had known each other (and Spain) for a long time. Practically grown up together. That didn’t necessarily make them loyal—but it made hurting each other a specialty. England had said—
“I’m going to get France.”
Canada, Australia and New Zealand—their eyes all jumped up.
“What!”
“Ah, Eng—what the fuck is z’at about?”
“Oi, yeh, what ‘appens if we lose you too?”
They went on, Australia and New Zealand, mostly. Canada was just watching him. England listened to them for a moment and then raised his gloved hand. “I can’t liberate his country right now, obviously. But it would smack a certain indecency if I didn’t retrieve him for his own sake.”
“Y’can’t jus’ fuckin walk into German occupation and ask for him!” Australia scratched his nose.
“At least don’t go it alone.”
“Taking men is an invitation for them to fire the moment they set eyes on me. I don’t intend to have to fight my way in.”
“You gone barkin’ mad!” Australia said, looking dumbfounded. “’Don’t intend to fight me way in’,” he imitated (rather well). “You’re going to just have a walk up and ask politely then; hallo, mates! Mind if I come in for a bi’ o’ tea an’ a biscuit? Need to retrieve—ah, yes, chaps—him, in the blue an’ red! Thank you so much! God save you!”
England smiled, it was sardonic. “Of course not.”
Across the table, Canada’s eyes flicked up to the board and then back to England.
“What then?” asked New Zealand. “Going to parachute in?”
“I don’t intend,” England repeated, folding his hands on the table, “to fight my way in.”
“If the fucking Krauts ‘ave their way, you won’t have any—“
“Germany’s not going to be there, is he?” said Canada, eyes narrowed at England. “Prussia is, right?”
England allowed the corners of his mouth to quirk up, seeing that hint of blue steel in Canada’s gaze. “Yes. Prussia will be present. He will not shoot me on sight.”
“You’re assuming that he—“
“Prussia as mad as Russia!” Australia said, getting out a cigarette. “An’ wha’s more, he doesn’t live in the glorious past like you lot do. He changes with the world—he’ll shoot you.”
“Prussia knows that it takes far more than bullets. And he loves the spectacle of a fight. He would rather fight me himself to appease his own boredom, than allow his men to use me for target practice when he knows I’ll rip their arms off when I get to them.”
The confidence was enough to quiet Australia and New Zealand for a moment.
“Let me come with you.”
England’s eyes slid over to Canada. “No. I need you here to take my command.”
“Please—New Zealand is ready—Australia can take your command and New Zealand can take mine.” He didn’t quite meet England’s eyes. “I want to go. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Paris.”
“An occupation—“
“I owe it to France.”
“You owe nothing to France. He gave you up for his sugar colonies.”
Canada stiffened. “Doesn’t matter. He did what he felt was best. He prevented further war between you two on North America.”
“That didn’t much matter, did it? He came over anyway.”
Canada sighed. “Don’t change the subject. Don’t let your grudges become mine. I’ve made my peace with France. You shouldn’t go alone.”
England snorted. “My experiences in war—“
“I don’t care. You won’t be able to carry him back and fight your way out by yourself. Especially if it’s Prussia you have to fight. He would kill France before he let you leave with him.”
“He’s got you there, mate,” Australia said, offering his pack to New Zealand, who took it and fished three cigarettes out, passing them around. “Prussia’s as mad as a cut snake, but he isn’t stupid.”
England took it and licked his upper lip, snapping his fingers for the lighter. “We’re going with nothing, you understand. I will take a side arm but that’s all. And you will take nothing.”
Canada took one as well and lit it with his own lighter. “Understood.”
“If, at any point, I tell you to leave, I expect you to follow my orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No matter if we get France or not.”
“I understand.”
England sighed. “God and the Queen but I must be getting soft.” He drew in on the cigarette. “Go and change out into your dress uniform. I’ll do the same.”
Canada stood and left the tent.
England watched him and then looked at New Zealand and Australia. “Well?”
Australia grinned. “I’m at ease since Canada’s going with you. He won’t let you lose your head and think you’re in the fucking sixteenth century or somethin’.”
New Zealand snorted on his cigarette and grinned.
Canada was back soon enough. He looked good in uniform, a brilliant scarlet that wore well to his broad shoulders. His other uniforms were nondescript and he had no inclination to be identifiable to other nations. England was just the opposite. His dress uniform was black (he’d done all the stitching and gold trim embroidery himself).
He took only his sidearm and a plane, which Canada flew across the channel (he, like America, was much better at handling planes; where England preferred the ground or sea) and when they arrived, Canada landed in the middle of a field, where England folded his hands and crossed his legs.
“What are we doing in this field? We could have—”
England picked up the radio and toyed with the frequencies and then spoke in German; it was an old, guttural sound. When he finished, he hung it up. “I just gave them our location and told them we would be surrendering.”
Canada’s eyes went wide but England held up a hand. “The fastest way to get to Paris is to not have to fight along the way.”
England lifted his nose at the young German soldiers who came to get them. England allowed his sidearm to be confiscated without a fight and snapped his fingers in the face of their commanding officer. “Commander Gilbert Beilschmidt. Is he in Paris?”
The officer blinked, hesitated, but then didn’t answer.
The commander of their camp, a grizzled colonel did something of a double-take when Canada and England were escorted in. He rose from his chair. “Bist du—“
England interrupted, in German. “I wish to speak to Gilbert Beilschmidt. If my calculation is correct, he is in Paris for the next week. I want to speak to him. Get him on the radio.” The man just stared at him for a moment and England snorted and walked up to the radio himself. He ignored the sound of raising guns—
And then the colonel snatched the instrument.
Within two days, they were in Paris and Prussia was waiting for them.
He gave England a nod, smirking and looked at Canada. “Almost didn’t realize which boy you’d brought.” He accepted England’s sidearm, which an officer handed him.
“A testament of my intentions,” England replied. “Had I wanted a fight, I would have brought Australia.”
Prussia laughed and grinned at Canada. “Guess you never were the spitfires like your brothers.”
Canada made a point to not quite meet Prussia’s eyes. “No, sir,” he mumbled.
“It’s good to see you, England. Pity we’re on different sides this time. Though I’m sure Germany would be all too happy to let you join the Axis. Japan, too.”
England snorted. “And put myself under the command of your little creation? No, no, thank you.”
“I can always hope. My little brother has huge fucking balls.” He grinned, leading them to a jeep and buzzing through the city. “Huge balls. Gets ‘em from me.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“I’ll bet he could beat the shit out of your boy in a fight.” Prussia looked sidelong at him. “And by ‘your’ I mean ‘formerly’ and by ‘boy’, I mean, ‘America’.”
“That has yet to be seen.” Though I doubt it.
“No word from that end, eh?” He handed England his gun back. “You plane is at the airfield, by the way. They brought it for you. You can thank me later.”
“He is attempting to deal with other problems.”
“That’ll be a shame—kind of weird though if he does. Haha! War! It’s a family affair! Except for Japan and China. But you and your brats all on one side, me and Germany on one side—Russia keeps his family close. By the neck. Via rope. And barbed wire. And death. Christ, you hear what he did to Ukraine?” He jerked the car around a corner and brought it to an abrupt stop. Canada had to grab onto the edge so he wouldn’t fly forward.
England got out to avoid answering the question because of course he’d heard about it—after the fact—in the early ‘30s when Russia nearly starved her to death. He followed Prussia inside, who was already talking about something else.
“So. I’ve no doubt why you’re actually here. Allied nations don’t make visits to the Axis except but for a few reasons. You can’t want a fuck though, ‘cause you brought the kid—unless he wants to join in. So that means you want something. I’m guessing it’s France.”
“Yes, I would like to see France. See how you’re treating him.”
“How do you think?
“Terrible, so it would do me good to see it.”
Prussia laughed, and it wasn’t a nice sound, and he led them upstairs into a tea room. “You,” he snapped, pointing at a saluting guard. “Get some tea for the fucking Redcoat and—“ he looked back at Canada. “What for you, kid?”
“He’ll have water,” England supplied.
“You heard him—get it—and some bread and butter and jam. Bring some of those French cigarettes and then get the fuck downstairs and don’t come back up until I say so.”
When the man had done so and then gone, Prussia gestured for them to have chairs and then pointed to a far door. “He’s in there. Door’s open.”
“Canada,” England said and didn’t even look at him, just waved his hand.
Canada got up, nodded to them both and headed for the door.
He opened it, closed it and whirled around and his stomach dropped.
For a moment, he stood there, swaying. “France…”
He was thin, too thin and it looked as though he’d aged a century. He was laid out, limp, in a high-backed, covered chair. Slumped in it and facing the window.
There was a bed not far from where he sat, covered in ruined sheets and blood-splattered blankets. Canada threw himself forward, running to him, kneeling by the chair. He grabbed his dry, brittle hand. “France!”
France gasped and his eyes flew open and he looked down. He stared for a second and his eyes became clearer. “Canada…” Using his elbow for leverage, he pushed himself to sit up. “Canada…how…”
“Shhh, it doesn’t matter yet. Are you okay? Can you walk?”
France slumped back into the chair, smiling faintly. “My legs walk with the enemy but my heart remains in Paris.”
Canada frowned. “What?”
“Collaborators.” France snorted. “It’s truly an embarrassment. Ah, well.”
Canada moved, coming around in front and kneeling on the threadbare footrest. He unbuttoned France’s shirt. “C’mon, you need to change clothes.”
“Canada, I am impressed that you got in—Prussia keeps tight security—but I don’t think—you ought to leave before—“
“Just do it, please.” Canada stood and hauled France up. France clung to his shoulders, thin and weak, hair matted and tangled.
“Excuse my ruffled appearance,” France said, mouth twisting in a miserable smile.
“Shut up. Just—come on.”
England fiddled with his gloves and wet his lips on the tea Prussia gave him but he didn’t drink. He certainly didn’t trust Prussia that much. (Trust him enough to fuck him but not to drink his tea. Was that as strange as it sounded?) He said, “I don’t expect any details on the war from you. Though I will say, you are letting Germany run a bit off the map, aren’t you?”
“Germany isn’t under my control. I raised him as a soldier—not as my son.” Prussia winked. “That’s the difference between you and me. You tried to raise sons.”
“If you’re going to critique my past actions—you had best come up with something better. My empire was and is far larger than yours ever dreamt of.”
“I’m sure I could dream. And when we win, I will dream ever larger, England.”
“I look forward to crushing your dream.”
“Oh, hasn’t every country in the world heard that from you at least once? You love to crush the delicate dreams of the young, don’t you? I do hope that I get to come live in London when it’s all over.”
“Sentiment, Prussia?”
“No. I hate London. But I’ll enjoy rubbing it in your face. I can put up with some rain for that.”
England put his saucer and teacup down. “My record stands far longer than yours. I have never lost my island. Not since Rome.”
“But even Rome falls.” Prussia stood and he paced the room like a caged cat. “I suppose Japan will take Australia and New Zealand from you. Let him have a little empire in that corner of the world. I wonder what he’ll do to the two of them. His sentiment towards you is something he seems to keep to himself.”
“Good luck, taming those two brothers.”
Prussia paused at the window and looked back. “You know Japan will. He’s like you. He’ll brutalize them. In private. Where no one can hear them when they finally beg him.”
“Don’t confuse Japan for you.”
“Me? Hahaha! I like the spectacle! I like for people to know it when a nation surrenders to me! You and Japan, you’ll do it for your own satisfaction so that every time that nation looks at you, they’ll relive their surrender again and again and again. You’re a couple of kinky bastards. It’s no wonder you hate France so much because every time you want him to relive his surrender, he’ll talk about the time he fucked you against a wall.”
“Are you quite finished?”
“Did you really come all this way just so that wimp could see France? While he’s in there crying, we could have a go. Ha!”
“We could.” England looked thoughtful. “You don’t like having to take turns babysitting France.”
“It’s boring. Anymore, he just gets this weird, stony look to his face. He doesn’t even resist anymore. Takes all the fun out of it.”
England felt something in him spark. “Isn’t that sort of thing a sign of lack of discipline?”
Prussia stopped. Then he laughed. “You’re one to talk. What is this? Civilized era, civilized men sort of thing? This is war, England. Full out, no stops, war. And I intend to make the most of it.”
England stood as well, he didn’t approach Prussia but, rather, lazily circled him, slowly, methodically. “I can’t blame you for that but this is the twentieth century. Medieval warfare is over. You certainly don’t cling to the glorious past—but you do cling to war.”
“Wars are fun. They were more fun two or three hundred years ago.”
“I must be getting old. I don’t find myself getting the same thrills.” He came up behind Prussia, slowly, leisurely.
“That’s because this war is too structured. There isn’t the same chaos we used to go into. It’s not as much fun. Not as thrilling. Information travels so fucking fast that you have to keep your wits about you. That makes war more like chess.”
“War, a strategy game? You’re joking.”
“Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious.” Prussia turned to him and rolled his eyes. “I’m very good at strategy.”
England struck him.
Prussia staggered, tripped over the footstool. And England grabbed him, slammed his face into the corner of the chair.
“No,” said England, smiling. “I don’t think so.”
Blood was gushing from Prussia’s nose and mouth. “Son of a bitch,” he ground out, mouth gummy. “You fucking—“
England slammed his face down into the floor. “Hm?”
Prussia jolted in his hands and reared up, digging his fingers into England’s ribs and slamming him back. “Fuckin’ Redcoat.” He tackled him.
England hit the floor on his back and then Prussia was on him, grabbing his tie, grabbing his hair. England bucked, flipping himself. Prussia was stronger than he remembered—they grappled—he shoved a knee between England’s legs and pressed in. England choked, hips jerking and Prussia grinned and flushed their bodies together. “Sure you want to keep fighting?” He ground their hips together.
England arched, breath shortening; other hand reached out, fingers curling around a thin vase and he swung.
It slammed into Prussia’s head and he went down to the floor. England leapt up and kicked him, grabbed him by his lapels and threw him into the wall. When Prussia’s eyes came up this time, there was no humor in them. “You’re making me seriously want to kick the shit out of you, Redcoat.”
England smirked and straightened his gloves. “Come on then, Kraut.”
Prussia’s eye twitched and he flew at him.
England grabbed the knife from the butter dish and stabbed at him. Prussia barely dodged, the side of his cheek splitting open. He struck down, opening a line down the side of his neck. Prussia decked him and swept aside, grabbing up the tea table by its legs and slamming it down on him. England hunched, let it bust over his spine and grabbed a shard of broken china from the floor, whirling around and slicing. Prussia was grinning by now, jumping back and flitting forward again.
England blinked and jolted, looking at something on the floor.
Prussia looked down.
England slammed his fist into his face. “Really? Really, Prussia? You fell for that? Not even France falls for that.”
“France invented it, y’son of a bitch,” Prussia said, laughing, as he staggered to one side. “Think you cracked my jaw.”
“Well, if you’re not sure then I certainly didn’t do a very good job.” England cuffed him again.
“Oh, hell, that’s low, Redcoat.” Prussia stumbled into one of the chair and then grabbed the broken butter dish.
“As is everything that comes out of your mouth.” England moved, fast—and this felt like the other wars—he slammed into Prussia and stabbed with the knife and shard into his collar. He felt something hard and cold slam into the side of his head and his mind went fuzzy for a moment, but he twisted the knife. Heard Prussia grunt and then his eyes cleared and reached for his sidearm.
Prussia went for it at the same moment. “Fucking cheating!”
The empire slammed the butt into his face. “Hardly. I’m not going to fire. Wouldn’t want to alert the guards.” He did it over and over again until both of them were covered in red.
Prussia was still smiling, still struggling, though faintly. “Really are here to get France, aren’t you?”
“Unfortunately, I owe him.”
“I suppose I’ll have to pay you back later. All you had to do was ask, you know.”
“I’m afraid I don’t believe that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He hit him one last time in the face and Prussia shuddered and went limp.
England stood up and licked his lips, tasting Prussia’s metallic blood on them. He took off his blood-soaked gloves and raided the other’s pockets, digging out a set of keys and a handkerchief. He clipped them to his belt and flopped his bloody gloves down on Prussia’s face. Walking over to the mirror above the mantle, he spit on the handkerchief and cleaned up his face as best he could.
“I suppose I ought to hurry,” he said to his reflection; he smiled. “God forbid I have to kill all his men too.”
He went back to get his bloody gloves.
Canada was getting France into trousers when they heard the fight start in the next room. “They’re here—Canada, you must—“
“It’s fine. Stop thinking about them. Put your damn boots on.”
“Do you know who’s—“
“France!” He said, with such an air of desperation that France stopped. “Please!”
He nodded and Canada helped him get a new shirt on and did up the buttons for him. “I remember when I used to do this for you.”
Canada smiled, distracted.
“You look good in uniform, Canada. Though you’re better suited for blue.”
“It’s just a dress uniform.” An ominous quiet settled in the other room and Canada tensed, turning away from France. “There’s no gloves for you. You’ll have to go without.”
France held onto his chair. “Any port, of course.”
Canada looked out the window, where Prussia’s jeep was still sitting. The door creaked and he whipped around, hurrying to France’s side, getting in front of him—in case the wrong uniform came through that door. He hadn’t considered, until this moment, what he might do if England lost. There was always the window, he supposed.
But then the door opened and black slipped in. “Canada, is he ready?”
France went very still, eyes wide. “England?” He said, as if he had just sprouted another head. “What are you doing here?”
“What’s it look like, frog?”
“He’s ready,” said Canada. “Prussia?”
“Out cold. Let’s go.” He walked over to France, jamming a blood-covered butter knife into Canada’s belt. “Good, you took him out of uniform.” He put an arm around France and half-lifted him. “God, frog, you’ve lost weight. You’re as light and shallow as one of your plays.”
France didn’t say anything. For once, he seemed speechless.
Canada helped carry him downstairs and then took him as England dealt with the staff, speaking in crisp, harsh German and brushing them off. They got into the jeep. It wasn’t until England fumbled with the keys, looking for the correct one that one of them went upstairs.
There was a shout and a yell.
England got the jeep started and they took off.
Made for a helluva story. America blinked and came back to himself, staring down at a glass of whiskey he didn’t recall pouring.
But Christ, France, Japan—no. Nothing compared to the camps. He’d never get that out of his head. They hadn’t known exactly what had been going on…but they’d started finding them. The reports had started coming in from Germany, from Poland, from Allied units finding…
God…
He could still see them. America’s stomach turned and he closed his eyes, putting the glass down. He could smell it. The stench of rot, starvation and death. Hopelessness and fear—gaunt, walking corpses had approached his unit.
He stood there, watching them. His men held their guns lowered and stared with him.
“Sergeant,” America had said, faintly. “get your translator up here.”
The officer reached up and called to a man named Hayes, and they went to a man who wasn’t quite as dead-looking as the others. America flicked his fingers at his lieutenant to listen and walked away, deeper into the camp. It was in the middle of the forest. A pristine location. A young, skeleton man—might have been twenty-two, might have fifty-five, staggered up, weeping, saying in German, “Help us….you have come…”
America reached out, holding the man up, who collapsed into him. His throat closed. He had seen men with their insides torn out, blown to bits, watched his young troops get torn apart by Krauts, Italians, Japs and each other. Watched them become smokers and drinkers, watched them wake in terror in the night, quake in fox holes, read their Dear John letters, cry.
But nothing quite compared to the desolation and misery of what they found to be a concentration camp.
Suddenly, their lives didn’t seem so bad.
America had dreamed about Japan after the August of 1945 but for nearly all of the year beforehand, he dreamt about those camps.
England had not batted an eyelid at the report of the camps. Because he was England and he had seen such things. France, China and Russia had not been surprised either. Their people were, of course, because they were only human. They were young.
America had felt small by them and took no comfort when Canada had staggered in to him one day, telling him he’d found one too. England had attempted to talk to Canada, comforted him, got him a cup of warm tea with some honey and whiskey and sent him to France. As much as England lamented the youth of his four former wards, America got the feeling he was glad that he only had to comfort one of them. He had not done the same for America because, of course, America was different. Not part of the Commonwealth. Had declared his independence.
But, he was a hero, right? Right?
Yeah. So fuck that.
He stared at the stick-people, their skin practically transparent. Yeah, if he were such a fucking hero, he’d have known about the goddamn camps sooner—done something about them—but. Goddammit.
“That wasn’t my fault.” He stared at the whiskey. “There was no way I could have gotten to them. No way. I didn’t know the full extent…”
His voice broke in the middle. He slammed the whiskey back. “Goddammit…” He raised the glass and smashed it down. It shattered, shards and slivers ramming up into his fingers. He swore and cursed and got up, upsetting the desk, scattering his paperwork, lamp exploding when it hit the floor. His hand went to his forehead, smearing blood into his hair.
He destroyed his sitting room and wore himself out, eventually falling asleep midst the mess.
Truman offered for him to come to the White House for Thanksgiving. America declined. He had no family here. His brother still resented him. His other brothers were across the world. England and France and the rest were in Europe. America stayed in his house with the lights off. He sat on the porch and watched the snow fall and he drank from the bottle.
Snow.
He could hear it. Hear the ice forming. Hear the trees creak.
What battle had been like this?
Bastogne. Belgium. The Bulge. December of ’44 to January of ’45.
Little flickers before his eyes, twinkling ice became lights became bombs. Lit up the night. There was a ringing sound—whirling artillery blasting snow, screaming men—screaming in agony, for their mothers, for the fucking medic for the—
America dropped the bottle and jumped—the ringing, it wasn’t—it was the phone. He drug his hand down his face and ignored it.
It was probably just the government, wanting some advice on how to deal with Russia—fucking humans—couldn’t they open up a goddamn book sometime? All the times America wanted them to listen, it seemed like they didn’t and every time he wanted them to leave him the fuck alone, they wouldn’t.
Sometimes, he just wanted to be human. Sit down on an evening like this, build a fire, have some coffee or hot chocolate with a girlfriend or maybe a mom, talk with a dad about the war…that’d be nice.
“No wonder all the old nations are lonely and bitter. No wonder they can never truly disdain each other—because we’re all we’ve got…and even hate is something to cling to. Even hate is better than nothing.”
But it wasn’t the government. It was England. And he hung up the phone after the tenth or eleventh ring and looked across his desk.
“Nothing?” France murmured, sitting back in his chair.
“Nothing.”
“Canada has been telling you for months that he’s been acting strangely since the war ended.”
England snorted. “He’s a grown boy. He can—“
“England, were this Canada or Australia or any of the others—you would be concerned, don’t let your--“
“I know,” England sighed. He got up, straightened his shirt and went to his decanter, pouring himself a glass of bourbon. “If he’s not been smart enough to contact me by Christmas—then I’ll go and check on him.”
“England. He helped us save Europe—you owe him better than that. He’s alone over there. And now this tension between him and Russia—”
“He’s always going on about being the hero—“
France rolled his eyes. “What would you expect? After having to keep showing off to us so that we’ll take him seriously? If he was meek and modest he’d get brushed off like poor Canada. But he refuses to dog for us—so he exaggerates himself.”
“He got that from you.”
France’s eyes hooded. “He did. And it’s done him well. He fights what hurts his nation—after Pearl Harbor, we saw. But in some ways, he’s still very much a child. And in others, a man—a soldier.”
England looked out the window. The moon was high. The night half over. “He has never seen brutality like that.” He shook his head. “Canada and the others are fine—“
“They were invited to stay and you don’t know that they’re fine.”
“He was being a prat!” England whirled around. “Every other word was some cutting remark, some paranoid emphasis about why I was concerned about Japan! Sullen silences and wandering around in the middle of the night, stealing my cigarettes, drinking my whiskey and—“
“Well, it’s not as though you permit him weakness. He doesn’t have that with you. He always feels he has to be different around you.”
“And since when do you know him so well?”
“Because I don’t take the world as seriously as you. And I don’t brush off Canada as quickly.”
“I don’t brush him off! He—I am quite proud of him! He did very well in the war.”
“Not what I was saying, England.”
England put the bourbon down. “Our countries—the United Kingdom and the United States…are having better relations right now….than…we have since the Revolution.”
“I heard about that. They’re taking it seriously. Your governments are allying closely.” France rolled his eyes and took out a cigarette. “Don’t tell me you’re still having a great sulk about that?”
England came back with the glass, slumped into the chair. “Two hundred years is not such a long time for us.”
“It ought to be. Let it go. If I can’t even manage to hold a grudge against you—who are you to hold a grudge against anyone?”
“I have a grudge against you.”
“Well, that’s a given,” France laughed, waving his cigarette. “You can’t lie to me, Eyebrows. I know you.”
England looked at him and frowned, his eyes went back to his glass. “I don’t know what to say to him. I always assumed I knew everything about him. But…what he did…”
“It’s difficult to comprehend, a weapon with that kind of power but—better across the ocean than in the hands of Prussia. Had they got it first, we’d call them evil destructive murderers but since he developed it and then used it—we cringe from that kind of widescale death and destruction—but, you know what my first, honest to God thought was?”
England’s eyes came up again.
France smirked. “I thought of how nice that would have been to have back a hundred years ago. How that would have certainly simplified things.”
“France! That’s—“ England looked away again. “Fucking hell—that’s—“
“What? Sick? No, hahaha, not sick. That’s just how we nations think. Our humans don’t—generally, but us. We do. And I know you had that thought. I know it flickered through your mind. Because giving the order for that kind of weapon—having never tested it in war before—not having a clear idea of what it would do—that sort of thing comes from you.”
England glared at his glass. “I have done a great many terrible things in this world but I would not have thought to—“
“Don’t pull that gentleman act on me, England. I don’t believe a word of it. And neither does anyone else. You spend all this time trying to convince yourself that you’re a gentleman? Ha. Feel free to fool the young ones but don’t insult those of us who watched you grow up.”
For a long moment, England was quiet. He lifted the glass to his lips and sipped from it and silently damned France for understanding.
“God, America, I thought you’d died.”
“What do you want?”
Canada blinked at his wall calendar, took the phone from his ear, looked at it and then replaced it. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing—sorry, just, what is it?”
“Australia and New Zealand said they hadn’t been able to get ahold of you. I was wondering if you were going to come to here for Christmas.” Canada fiddled with his ink pen and looked out his window, snow flakes lit by the decorations in his house. “They’re coming and England and France are coming.”
“No…, I don’t think so.” America’s voice sounded harsh, rough, like he was very ill and hadn’t shaved in awhile.
“America—you love Christmas. What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You aren’t, America. Is it this business with Russia?”
“No, fucking no. Just—“
“I know you guys were okay before he went—“
“Canada! I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”
“But—“
The phone clicked and the line went silent.
Fighting alongside England had brought Canada closer to him, especially when they had gone together to get France. Purposely playing the role of weakling to keep Prussia off his guard had enabled the two of them to get France out. And they’d made it all the way to the airfield before shots were fired.
England drove, taking the jeep over fence and bursting through barricades. He threw his sidearm to Canada and the young nation dunked France into the bottom of the jeep and stood, cap flying off. He leaned back against the windshield and started firing into the fast approaching jeep behind them.
“Canada! Hang on!” England jerked on the wheel and the whole vehicle slid.
Canada grabbed onto the windshield with one hand and reached down into England’s breast pocket with the other, getting another clip of ammo. Metal pinged around them with little sparks. Canada reloaded and started firing again, blowing out the tires of the other jeep.
England slammed on the brakes and they both jumped out.
“You’re almost empty! Do you have another clip?” Canada picked up France.
“It doesn’t matter. We can get weapons from the Krauts.”
France shifted and wheezed and straightened himself. “Hurry and let go. I can run.”
“No, you can’t. Shut up,” Canada snapped and he tossed France over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry as he and England ran side by side.
It was strange. Almost like a dance. When men came at them, Canada fired or England moved. And when England moved, the world seemed to slow down. He was graceful, powerful—he grabbed a man by his cross, slammed the head into his knee, flipped the body, grabbed the rifle and in a flash he had it on automatic fire and mowed down his comrades.
They kept going. Canada followed England even as they ran into a thick of soldiers that were guarding their plane. England tore into them as if they were simply pesky weeds and he opened up the cockpit door. “They siphoned our fuel. Stay here and fight them, Canada. I’m going to go get some.” And he was gone.
Canada put France under the plane and gave him the sidearm.
They had rifles, Canada did not but he wasn’t thinking about that when he ran at them. He had out the knife England had given him and that’s all he was aware of. The cool, sticky silver in his hand as he whirled, blinded by gunfire and blood burst over him. He had the rifle in a flash and there was some screaming and everything was blurry…
…and when silence fell and Canada came back to himself, he was alone, except for France. He was panting, chest heaving as he looked down at all the bodies. He was covered in blood, though his scarlet uniform made that more difficult to see. But he could feel the warmth of it; how it was making his hair clump together. He shook a little as he knelt to the uniform of one of the men, avoiding looking at his face (Germans didn’t look so different from Canadians) and rooted through his pockets. He found the man’s cigarettes and took them, lighting one and sucking on it.
England returned. He looked over the carnage and gave him an approving nod.
“Canada…Canada…” France was struggling to get up. “Come here, boy. Now.”
Canada did so, grabbing his arms. “What’s wrong? Were you hit?”
“No,” France wheezed and his hands went to Canada’s jacket, trying to open it. “But you were. We have to hurry, or the Germans will shoot us down when we fly across.”
Canada looked down and suddenly saw the holes in his uniform. Several of them. “Oh,” he said, stupidly. “Oh.” It hadn’t hurt until France pointed it out to him.
The flight back was all a blur to Canada; of pain and light and flashing and roars. He could hear his own panting breath very well but not much besides. France held him, he felt that. France held him the entire trip back, while England flew the plane.
When he fully awoke, his chest hurt and there was England and France, sitting by his cot. England was stroking his hair and forehead and France was holding his hand.
“You did well, Canada. I’m very proud of you,” England murmured, a faint smile on his lips.
Canada licked his lips and smiled back, exhausted. “Thanks…”
“Are you all right? Does it hurt?” France inquired, shifting and reaching up to touch his face.
“No, he hung up on me.” Canada sighed and paced his kitchen. “I don’t know. He won’t say. Tch—I’m not going to—no, England! I called his boss! He’s been ignoring them too. He’ll throw me out if I try to go there.”
England looked up from his desk, sneering a little at France. “All right, I understand—I—yes, all right. I know, it’s only a week out. We’ll be there. I’ll go and try to talk to America. Canada—I know. All right. Go and sleep. Yes, all right. Good night.”
England placed the phone back in its cradle and nodded at France. “I’m going. Quit looking at me like that.”
Since the invention of electric Christmas lights (fairy lights), America had insisted upon them and every year, he decorated inside his house in whatever new style had come out. America always insisted that Canada come and see it—and so England had known about it for a very long time and then actually saw it during the first Great War.
So when the taxi arrived, England nearly double-checked the address because this house could not be America’s. This house was dark, out and in. Foreboding. He peered up at it.
“This’a place, yeah?” said the cabbie.
“Yes, I do believe so. It just—looks a bit different than I’m used to.”
“Maybe he’s already in bed, gov’nor.”
“We will see. Thank you, sir.” England paid the man and grabbed his bag and got out. Did he say governor? He fought a smile, which faded anyway when he walked up the snowy driveway. America clearly had not shoveled and the porch was a mountain to climb but, somehow, England managed it. He let his bag sink into the snow, looked out into the early evening darkness and looked back at the door.
“America!” He pounded on it.
He waited for thirty seconds but no lights came on and there was no sound from the house. His car was still in the driveway and no footprints led away from the front door. England scowled. “America!” He bellowed. “You open this door! I know you’re in there!”
The house seemed to creak, floorboards settling. The snow shifted in the wind and whirled around England’s boots. His eyebrow twitched. “You insolent little sod! Ignore me, will you! I’ll have your boots for that!” He lifted his boot and slammed it into the door.
The whole frame shook and crunched. England aimed his next kick nearer the knob and when his boot came in, the door banged open. Cold air struck him, somehow colder than outside.
England put his boot down, primly picked up his bag and went into the house. He slammed the door and put a chair against it to keep it closed. He turned on the lights. “America?”
Silence answered him. The place was dusty, England saw as he toured each room. The kitchen was unused, windows dirty. The living room had a couple empty bottles in the middle of the floor and the phone unplugged from the wall. The fireplace was sooty and dark and cold. The sitting room made England stop and push the door open all the way. The handsome cherry wood writing desk toppled and cracked. Broken glass was all over the floor, along with flecks of blood. The lamp lay smashed on its side, the windows were broken, the remains of a bottle of whiskey, syrupy against the wall and books laying everywhere...
England’s frown deepened and some inherent instinct rose to the front of his mind, bypassing all the pride and guilt and uncertainty. He whirled around and hurried, stomach clenching. He dropped his bag and ran up the stairs, hardly noticing how every second seemed to have him moving faster. Dusty picture frames winked by him, some of them broken as well, testament to bloody finger prints. He took the corner hard, clipping it with his shoulder and then he was bursting into America’s room.
His eyes took it in in a flash. Empty. The bed was a mess, sheets torn, floor littered with cigarette butts and reeking of alcohol.
“Where…” He whipped around and opened the next room. Nothing. The next and the next and th—and England stopped, looking up a last, lonely staircase. That was the attic. He had never been up there. America had always been rather particular about that room. It was always locked. He didn’t give it another thought. He raced up, shoes thumping and he shouldered the door open. “America!”
He heard a stifled sound in the darkness. England crept because God knew what the hell America was doing up here. He peered and…
…there he was.
Leaning against the wall, sitting down, back against a wooden crate. There was another empty bottle beside him, as well as several sticks, barely visible in the dark. England went to him, kneeling. “America?”
America didn’t move. His glasses were dirty and smeared with grime. His eyes were dull and listless.
England glanced down at the sticks and for a second, he froze. He moved a hand down to the familiar wooden soldier and picked it up. He still has these. He never got rid of them. And a different, suffocating feeling clutched at his chest. He dropped the soldier and reached out, putting his hands on America’s face. “I should have come sooner.”
America jumped, eyes flashing for a moment and then drained. He opened his mouth, as if to say something but then couldn’t seem to find the words. He just stared at England.
The lost look struck some strange cord in England. Something he had never imagined and he leaned in and wrapped his arms around him. America buried his eyes in England’s shoulder, shaking. He spoke then, voice a ragged creak. “I didn’t know. I…didn’t…”
“Hush,” England murmured, moving his fingers into America’s hair. “Come. Come downstairs. Get out of this darkness.”
“I tried to get him to surrender.”
“America, get up.”
“I’m sorry.”
England didn’t answer. He pulled America’s arm over his shoulder and stood, pulling the other with him. Somehow, the two of them stumbled down the stairs to the living room, where England dumped America onto the couch and went back outside, gathering wood from the garage to build a fire. When that was done, he gathered blankets and went to America, who was sitting, looking slightly dazed.
“Your clothes are filthy. You should change them, America.” England could not look into his face, his fingers just went to the buttons, opening them up.
America shuddered but didn’t answer. “It’s cold…”
“That’s what happens in the bloody winter, you know. That’s why we invented indoor heating.”
America looked down, eyes dimming. “My people are happy. The war is over. They are happy. Buying houses. Having kids. Getting along with people internationally.”
“We all must rebuild to some degree. You just…you don’t have to rebuild your country. Just, yourself.”
“But if I represent them, then I should be happy too.”
England turned away, going back upstairs and getting him fresh clothes. When he came back, he said, “Sometimes it’s not as simple as that. Put these on.”
America did. “I always said I was a hero because I wanted to believe that what I was doing was right.”
“It was.”
America smiled; it was bitter. “I should have guessed about the death camps. The small ones were terrible enough…but the big ones…” his voice shook. “…with the ovens.”
“Stop.”
“…fresh—still warm, some of them. The people—the sheer amount of suffering…if I were…”
“But you didn’t know. None of us did. Stop that nonsense. There was no way you could have known and no way you wouldn’t have acted if you had.”
America looked at his knees.
“As far as Japan goes—“
“I’m going to help Japan! I’m going to, I fucking swear—you doubted me! They all did! But I was the one in the Pacific! I was the one who shipped out and saw some of—my boys—the island hopping—thousands dead because that bastard would never just fucking surrender! He’d never surrender! He’s like you! You know how often I thought of that?! The Japanese rarely surrender. They’re good men but they put me in a corner. It was either lose another hundred thousand men or get them under the fuck control! I did what I had to! I—“
“America!”
“Did you ever fucking ask Australia and New Zealand what it was like? Europe was fucking soft compared to what happened in the Pacific. More than once—Australia and I—we looked after New Zealand. He’d never seen that shit before! But Australia…he found the ones in Japan—that housed the camps for the Chinese—Unit seven-thirty-one. He—”
America jogged up, covered in dirt and sweat, to New Zealand. “Hey, where’s Australia?”
New Zealand pointed behind him. “Intelligence says this might be a POW camp. He went in to look.”
America looked up at the walls. “Huh—this far—ugh, it smells terrible. Do you smell that?”
“Well, sanitation—prob’ly none, yeah? Don’t suppose I could have a bit of that candy?”
“What candy?” America grinned.
“The candy in your pocket! Your people send chocolate and cigarettes and ice cream and candy. C’mon, mate, please?”
America laughed and took it out. “You know I won’t get more for awhile.”
“I’m the youngest, I ought to get more than you.”
“Yeah right!”
Australia staggered out of the gates, gagging.
“See,” said New Zealand, untwisting a paper-wrapped cube. “Oh, yeh—what’s the matter? Too many guts for you? Cor, got to do everythin around here, do I? Were our mates in there?”
Australia put a hand on the wall and vomited.
“Aussie?” America furrowed his eyebrows. “You all right?”
“Yeah, what is it? Some gas remain? Want me to go in an’ check it out?” New Zealand pointed at the gates and took a step towards them. “I’ll put a mask on.”
“N-no!” Australia choked, coughed and surfaced. His fist flashed out and he grabbed New Zealand by his uniform and jerked him back. “No!”
America felt a tinge of misgiving at those haunted eyes. Not that. Dammit, not that. “Australia—“
“Oi, what’s wrong with you?” New Zealand looked more concerned than angry. “What’s in there?”
Australia looked up at America and their eyes met. He was trembling, shaking his head.
America’s shoulders sank and his eyebrows went up. “Son of a bitch.”
Australia swallowed, looked down and then up. “Yeh.”
“God.” America shoved his hands into his hair.
New Zealand looked between them. “Is it…one of those camps? Like the ones in Europe?”
“I’ll go take a look. New Zealand, take Australia back and get him some water.”
“And then what?” England asked, softly.
“Australia wasn’t quite the same after he saw that. I kept an eye on him and he had New Zealand, of course.” America was looking down again. “He made me promise not to tell you. Said you had enough to worry about. Wasn’t a big deal.”
“Did he cry?”
America threw England a sharp, nasty glare. “Yeah. He did. But if you think for one goddamn second I’m going to let you—“
England swiftly held up his hands. “I’m not, America. I’m not.”
America relaxed, just slightly and looked down. “He cried and he had nightmares. New Zealand slept at his side every night…but eventually, he came to me because New Zealand hadn’t seen it and we wouldn’t let him. But he knew I had…so we talked about it for a long time and had a couple drinks and a couple packs of cigarettes. After a half-dozen times of that, he seemed okay. But after that, I made sure I looked into the camps we found.”
“You didn’t let them go in.”
“No.”
England snorted softly. “How like you. You know, when I was a boy—“
“I know, I know. You and Russia and France and Prussia and China—you all are such hardcore badasses, aren’t you? You guys know fuckin everything. You guys have seen it all since you were toddlers. I get it.”
“I wasn’t insulting you. I’m glad they didn’t have to see it.”
America went quiet, staring down at his knees again.
“You have done very well by your brothers.”
The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Careful. You’re dangerously close to claiming me.”
“I do in some ways. God help me.” England put his elbows on his knees. “And my government has seen fit to claim you.”
“Yeah, I read about it in the paper last month. Churchill and FDR really got on, didn't they...” He huffed and quoted, "We should not abandon our special relationship with the United States and Canada about the atomic bomb and we should aid the United States to guard this weapon as a sacred trust for the maintenance of peace."
They were quiet for a moment.
“Allow me,” England began, slowly, “to apologize for not coming sooner. Had I realized how hard you were taking this, I would have come sooner.”
“I woulda been fine.”
“You didn’t decorate your house. You are worse off than I thought.”
“What has my house got anything to do with it?”
“It's normally visible from three streets away.”
America smiled a little and looked sidelong at him. His eyes changed, saying what he couldn’t voice.
England reached up, running a thumb over his cheek. “You need a shave—but, for now, sleep. I’m exhausted and you need a proper rest.” He stood.
“England, I—“
“Well, of course,” England went on briskly, as if he hadn’t heard him start to speak, “you’ll have to budge up to make room for me. As it’s so bleeding cold in here. If I turn on the heat now it might even be warm by morning.” He turned away, taking off his jacket and hanging it up.
America watched him move around the house and fought with himself—whether he should feel relieved or guilty but in the end, as England came back to him and curled up on the couch next to him, he decided he just didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around him and England curled his fingers into America’s shirt.
“Sometimes, I think I want war again.”
England glanced back from the stove and nodded a little. “That’s fairly normal for our kind. War is the time where everything is less uncertain than usual and you feel a sense of unity.” He looked into a pan of mostly burnt sausages. “War has this way of making you feel more alone than you have ever felt but, in the same token, making you less lonely than you were before.”
“Does that ever go away?” America’s eyes were on his coffee.
“It did for me once I learned to make use of my allies after the wars were over. I stopped spending all my time by myself. And…when I reached a certain point, I stopped—er—unnecessary fooling about.”
“What made you reach that point?”
England’s profile changed, as if a ripple had gone through him, and his eyes softened. “I found you.”
America’s eyes lifted from his coffee. “That’s so sappy.”
“Shut up, ungrateful little moron. Getting rid of Napoleon helped too.”
America ate everything England cooked for him, praised it and enjoyed it and asked for more.
England understood. He invited America to help him destroy a bowl of pancake batter.
America pulled his elbow towards the ceiling to make room for England to duck under it and examine his chin in the mirror.
“You should try out a beard, England.”
England looked at him as if he’d just suggested he go and lick a cat. “Certainly not.”
America laughed and finished smearing soap on his face, grabbing a razor. “Might make you look a little older.”
“I’m not growing a beard. I’d never hear the end of it from France. I haven’t had a beard in—I don’t know. I know I tried it once—I hated it.”
“I kinda want to see that.”
“You do it then.”
“No, Canada did it once—and he looked weirdly like France. So I would too—if I ever forgot to trim my hair. And I don’t need to get at yelled at for the things he does.”
England rolled his eyes and grabbed up America’s soap. “Somehow, I think Canada would see that as justice.” He leaned closer to the mirror, examining his skin critically and then smearing lather on it.
America smiled, remembering another time, in another room that he’d knocked the walls from and rebuilt over the years. Of the early winter morning, the glow of a lantern and looking up, watching England shave in the dim looking-glass. The memory was faint and fond and he smiled to himself and looked back to the mirror, watching England for just another moment and then raising the blade to continue.
The entire time they were there, England never remembered to plug the phone back into the wall.
They made it on time, standing together in front of Canada’s house. The snow was thick but the drive shoveled and swept. England adjusted his scarf and hat and mittens and looked sidelong at America. His face tinted by the Christmas tree that was glimmering in the window. He had come back to himself very quickly in some ways—seemingly just needing someone else around him to remind him that he was still alive. But something, England could see the shadows of something in his eyes but whatever it was, America would either tell him, or he wouldn’t. To press would annoy him, insult him.
“They’ll be glad to see you. Canada was worried,” England said, briskly, sweeping snowflakes off his long, black coat.
“I’ll have to apologize to him.” He ran his fingers along the car door. “Later, maybe.”
“He would probably like that.”
America snorted and looked over at him. “Yeah, you’d like to see it, wouldn’t you?”
England chuckled. “I would.”
“Well, you won’t, you bastard.” America was smirking, meeting England’s eyes—and some measure of warmth passed between them, something thickened the air and made England look away.
“Well,” he said, “shall we go in now, or wait for them to notice us out here?”
“Oh yeah, we came to see them, didn’t we?”
England rolled his eyes and nudged him with his elbow. He started up the steps of Canada’s porch, arms bowed awkwardly for balance. “It’s icy. Be careful.”
“I know—I’d be more worried about you. What do you know about snow?” America followed him.
“It snows in London, you daft fool!”
The door flew open, casting a warm, golden rectangle over the both of them.
“Hey! It’s England!” And New Zealand came bounding through the door and slammed into him.
England seemed to realize what was about to happen about two seconds before it did. He raised his arms, saying, “No—don’t—!” But the damage was done and he slipped on the ice and England tumbled backwards.
America yelped and grabbed him and they landed in a three-man pile on the ground. “God dammit, Zea! What the hell!”
France laughed from the top of the porch, dressed handsomely in a sweater. “I thought that arguing sounded familiar.”
Australia was laughing too but he came down the steps and swept New Zealand up, throwing him over his shoulder. “Why do you have to be such a—“
“Hey! Put me down, y’rotten—!”
“England, are you all right?” That was Canada, coming down and offering his hand, helping England to his feet.
“Yes, yes, of course.” He cast around. “Where’s my hat—and God and the Queen, New Zealand, so help me, I will wring your neck—“
“Here it is,” America pulled the cap up and dumped the snow out of it and then managed to clamor up.
England took it, lips pressed thin and started back up the stairs, holding onto the railing. He whipped his gloves off. “France, get in here and show me where to put my coat!”
America put his hands in his pockets and met Canada’s eyes. “Hey.”
Canada nodded. “Hey.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Canada smiled, something warmer in it. “Yeah.” He clapped America’s shoulder. “We’ve got hot chocolate.”
“It’s the best, really,” added Australia. He nodded at America too. “Good t’see yeh, finally.”
“Hey, Yank,” said New Zealand, waving from Australia’s shoulder.
America chuckled and mussed his hair. “Let’s try it then. Would take a lot to beat Spain’s hot chocolate.”
They went up the stairs together.
--
Haha, if I didn't know better, I'd say I was developing a family complex.
Author/Artist:
historyblitz, kept track of at historizeCharacter(s) or Pairing(s): America, England, Canada, France, Australia, New Zealand, Prussia
Rating: thematic R
Warnings: some violence, mentions of the concentration camps and the war in the Pacific; England and Canada getting France out of Paris, some derogatory language
Summary: America copes badly with the brutality of WW2, Papa!England eventually throws pancake batter at him.
I found myself wanting to write after marathoning an amazing World War II miniseries called "Band of Brothers". It was awesome and I recommend it to anyone and everyone.
Eventually posted here
America went to the parties and he went to the celebrations. He was in the parade, at the front when the ships came in. He went to the wild bash in Europe—in Paris, in London, hell, everywhere.
But when America went home, he went alone. No one met him in New York. Oh, sure, the president was there but that didn’t count, not when he looked around at his boys and their girlfriends reuniting on the street. Not when the whole place was filled with unity and joy. With relief and happiness and victory.
So when America turned back and looked down through the skyscrapers of his city, watching the little bits of paper—like a colorful snow—he felt none of it.
He was suddenly back where he’d been. With a distinctive loneliness. For a moment, he closed his eyes and saw the others. Canada would be in Europe for a little while yet—having a good time with England and France, as he so deserved. He’d done very well. Australia and New Zealand would be there for a little while too. But America…he’d shipped out to Japan and when he came back, he found himself out of the loop. When England took him aside, pressed him if he was all right—
I dream about Japan, every night.
--America had done what he always did. He brushed him off. (“Course I’m fine! Got what he deserved!”) England had rebuked him (“You’re not fine. And you don’t mean that.”) And America had shouldered away. (“What’d’you care anyway? I’ll leave tomorrow if you want me gone.”) And he did.
I just wanted the war to end. But telling Japan that was useless.
But, he had a government to greet and arrangements to make. There was no time for loneliness or feelings. It was time to throw himself into his work before he started wishing there was still a war. (He didn’t…right?)
He took out a pack of cigarettes and pressed his tongue in it; it stuck and he drew one out into his mouth and lit it.
Of course he didn’t. America got into a car with his boss and his men and looked out the windows. It was a perfect day. Perfect. Blue skies, chalky clouds and a breeze off the bay.
No weapons touched his mainland.
Of course he didn’t want war.
That night, he sat in his empty house with no one but the picture frames—dusty—for company. He’d been unnecessarily cruel to England. Cruel to them all after he’d come back from Japan. All cutting remarks and silences. The only one who had brushed it off, had been France.
Good old fucking France. He was a bastard, an opportunist; a leisurely, vain, arrogant, sardonic son of a bitch but. He was still one of the best guys America knew. He wasn’t like Prussia, who endeared himself to you one moment and then fucked you over the next. He wasn’t like England, who you thought, for just a glimmer, really was the best guy you ever met—and then he’d do something fucking stupid, like ask about Japan, bitch about why America hadn’t joined the war sooner, or get all weird and sad like parents whose children have finally moved out. (Empty nest syndrome. He wasn’t going to be able to keep India.) He wasn’t like Russia, who would act all crazy on you over something ridiculous (Baltics, what was it with him?). He wasn’t even like Canada, who could do amazing things on a battlefield but fuck all for anything else. He was. France.
France. Who never looked at life too seriously—because life was so bitter that he’d only be able to become resentful and bitter himself if he did—so he laughed. He kept a comment ready. He was brutally honest. He was an asshole sometimes but he made no pretense that he was anything but. And when America had lashed out at him, France had smiled in that maddening way of his and asked him, “Well, sounds like you need a bit of a night away, America~. Come have a cigarette and wine with me and we’ll put your problems to bed, yes?”
“You’re such a dick.” But America hadn’t been able to help but smile.
“That is what I like to hear.”
“Laughter? Or that you’re a dick?”
He had winked. “I’ll let you decide.”
And that was why he’d wanted to save France.
When the Germans had taken Paris, France had stayed, refusing to abandon his city in a rare show of mocking pride. Under the occupation, God only knew what had happened to him—Germany had come sometimes. Prussia at other times. France never said what they did to him.
Though, if it was Prussia, it wasn’t a difficult guess. America knew that he and France had known each other (and Spain) for a long time. Practically grown up together. That didn’t necessarily make them loyal—but it made hurting each other a specialty. England had said—
“I’m going to get France.”
Canada, Australia and New Zealand—their eyes all jumped up.
“What!”
“Ah, Eng—what the fuck is z’at about?”
“Oi, yeh, what ‘appens if we lose you too?”
They went on, Australia and New Zealand, mostly. Canada was just watching him. England listened to them for a moment and then raised his gloved hand. “I can’t liberate his country right now, obviously. But it would smack a certain indecency if I didn’t retrieve him for his own sake.”
“Y’can’t jus’ fuckin walk into German occupation and ask for him!” Australia scratched his nose.
“At least don’t go it alone.”
“Taking men is an invitation for them to fire the moment they set eyes on me. I don’t intend to have to fight my way in.”
“You gone barkin’ mad!” Australia said, looking dumbfounded. “’Don’t intend to fight me way in’,” he imitated (rather well). “You’re going to just have a walk up and ask politely then; hallo, mates! Mind if I come in for a bi’ o’ tea an’ a biscuit? Need to retrieve—ah, yes, chaps—him, in the blue an’ red! Thank you so much! God save you!”
England smiled, it was sardonic. “Of course not.”
Across the table, Canada’s eyes flicked up to the board and then back to England.
“What then?” asked New Zealand. “Going to parachute in?”
“I don’t intend,” England repeated, folding his hands on the table, “to fight my way in.”
“If the fucking Krauts ‘ave their way, you won’t have any—“
“Germany’s not going to be there, is he?” said Canada, eyes narrowed at England. “Prussia is, right?”
England allowed the corners of his mouth to quirk up, seeing that hint of blue steel in Canada’s gaze. “Yes. Prussia will be present. He will not shoot me on sight.”
“You’re assuming that he—“
“Prussia as mad as Russia!” Australia said, getting out a cigarette. “An’ wha’s more, he doesn’t live in the glorious past like you lot do. He changes with the world—he’ll shoot you.”
“Prussia knows that it takes far more than bullets. And he loves the spectacle of a fight. He would rather fight me himself to appease his own boredom, than allow his men to use me for target practice when he knows I’ll rip their arms off when I get to them.”
The confidence was enough to quiet Australia and New Zealand for a moment.
“Let me come with you.”
England’s eyes slid over to Canada. “No. I need you here to take my command.”
“Please—New Zealand is ready—Australia can take your command and New Zealand can take mine.” He didn’t quite meet England’s eyes. “I want to go. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Paris.”
“An occupation—“
“I owe it to France.”
“You owe nothing to France. He gave you up for his sugar colonies.”
Canada stiffened. “Doesn’t matter. He did what he felt was best. He prevented further war between you two on North America.”
“That didn’t much matter, did it? He came over anyway.”
Canada sighed. “Don’t change the subject. Don’t let your grudges become mine. I’ve made my peace with France. You shouldn’t go alone.”
England snorted. “My experiences in war—“
“I don’t care. You won’t be able to carry him back and fight your way out by yourself. Especially if it’s Prussia you have to fight. He would kill France before he let you leave with him.”
“He’s got you there, mate,” Australia said, offering his pack to New Zealand, who took it and fished three cigarettes out, passing them around. “Prussia’s as mad as a cut snake, but he isn’t stupid.”
England took it and licked his upper lip, snapping his fingers for the lighter. “We’re going with nothing, you understand. I will take a side arm but that’s all. And you will take nothing.”
Canada took one as well and lit it with his own lighter. “Understood.”
“If, at any point, I tell you to leave, I expect you to follow my orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No matter if we get France or not.”
“I understand.”
England sighed. “God and the Queen but I must be getting soft.” He drew in on the cigarette. “Go and change out into your dress uniform. I’ll do the same.”
Canada stood and left the tent.
England watched him and then looked at New Zealand and Australia. “Well?”
Australia grinned. “I’m at ease since Canada’s going with you. He won’t let you lose your head and think you’re in the fucking sixteenth century or somethin’.”
New Zealand snorted on his cigarette and grinned.
Canada was back soon enough. He looked good in uniform, a brilliant scarlet that wore well to his broad shoulders. His other uniforms were nondescript and he had no inclination to be identifiable to other nations. England was just the opposite. His dress uniform was black (he’d done all the stitching and gold trim embroidery himself).
He took only his sidearm and a plane, which Canada flew across the channel (he, like America, was much better at handling planes; where England preferred the ground or sea) and when they arrived, Canada landed in the middle of a field, where England folded his hands and crossed his legs.
“What are we doing in this field? We could have—”
England picked up the radio and toyed with the frequencies and then spoke in German; it was an old, guttural sound. When he finished, he hung it up. “I just gave them our location and told them we would be surrendering.”
Canada’s eyes went wide but England held up a hand. “The fastest way to get to Paris is to not have to fight along the way.”
England lifted his nose at the young German soldiers who came to get them. England allowed his sidearm to be confiscated without a fight and snapped his fingers in the face of their commanding officer. “Commander Gilbert Beilschmidt. Is he in Paris?”
The officer blinked, hesitated, but then didn’t answer.
The commander of their camp, a grizzled colonel did something of a double-take when Canada and England were escorted in. He rose from his chair. “Bist du—“
England interrupted, in German. “I wish to speak to Gilbert Beilschmidt. If my calculation is correct, he is in Paris for the next week. I want to speak to him. Get him on the radio.” The man just stared at him for a moment and England snorted and walked up to the radio himself. He ignored the sound of raising guns—
And then the colonel snatched the instrument.
Within two days, they were in Paris and Prussia was waiting for them.
He gave England a nod, smirking and looked at Canada. “Almost didn’t realize which boy you’d brought.” He accepted England’s sidearm, which an officer handed him.
“A testament of my intentions,” England replied. “Had I wanted a fight, I would have brought Australia.”
Prussia laughed and grinned at Canada. “Guess you never were the spitfires like your brothers.”
Canada made a point to not quite meet Prussia’s eyes. “No, sir,” he mumbled.
“It’s good to see you, England. Pity we’re on different sides this time. Though I’m sure Germany would be all too happy to let you join the Axis. Japan, too.”
England snorted. “And put myself under the command of your little creation? No, no, thank you.”
“I can always hope. My little brother has huge fucking balls.” He grinned, leading them to a jeep and buzzing through the city. “Huge balls. Gets ‘em from me.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“I’ll bet he could beat the shit out of your boy in a fight.” Prussia looked sidelong at him. “And by ‘your’ I mean ‘formerly’ and by ‘boy’, I mean, ‘America’.”
“That has yet to be seen.” Though I doubt it.
“No word from that end, eh?” He handed England his gun back. “You plane is at the airfield, by the way. They brought it for you. You can thank me later.”
“He is attempting to deal with other problems.”
“That’ll be a shame—kind of weird though if he does. Haha! War! It’s a family affair! Except for Japan and China. But you and your brats all on one side, me and Germany on one side—Russia keeps his family close. By the neck. Via rope. And barbed wire. And death. Christ, you hear what he did to Ukraine?” He jerked the car around a corner and brought it to an abrupt stop. Canada had to grab onto the edge so he wouldn’t fly forward.
England got out to avoid answering the question because of course he’d heard about it—after the fact—in the early ‘30s when Russia nearly starved her to death. He followed Prussia inside, who was already talking about something else.
“So. I’ve no doubt why you’re actually here. Allied nations don’t make visits to the Axis except but for a few reasons. You can’t want a fuck though, ‘cause you brought the kid—unless he wants to join in. So that means you want something. I’m guessing it’s France.”
“Yes, I would like to see France. See how you’re treating him.”
“How do you think?
“Terrible, so it would do me good to see it.”
Prussia laughed, and it wasn’t a nice sound, and he led them upstairs into a tea room. “You,” he snapped, pointing at a saluting guard. “Get some tea for the fucking Redcoat and—“ he looked back at Canada. “What for you, kid?”
“He’ll have water,” England supplied.
“You heard him—get it—and some bread and butter and jam. Bring some of those French cigarettes and then get the fuck downstairs and don’t come back up until I say so.”
When the man had done so and then gone, Prussia gestured for them to have chairs and then pointed to a far door. “He’s in there. Door’s open.”
“Canada,” England said and didn’t even look at him, just waved his hand.
Canada got up, nodded to them both and headed for the door.
He opened it, closed it and whirled around and his stomach dropped.
For a moment, he stood there, swaying. “France…”
He was thin, too thin and it looked as though he’d aged a century. He was laid out, limp, in a high-backed, covered chair. Slumped in it and facing the window.
There was a bed not far from where he sat, covered in ruined sheets and blood-splattered blankets. Canada threw himself forward, running to him, kneeling by the chair. He grabbed his dry, brittle hand. “France!”
France gasped and his eyes flew open and he looked down. He stared for a second and his eyes became clearer. “Canada…” Using his elbow for leverage, he pushed himself to sit up. “Canada…how…”
“Shhh, it doesn’t matter yet. Are you okay? Can you walk?”
France slumped back into the chair, smiling faintly. “My legs walk with the enemy but my heart remains in Paris.”
Canada frowned. “What?”
“Collaborators.” France snorted. “It’s truly an embarrassment. Ah, well.”
Canada moved, coming around in front and kneeling on the threadbare footrest. He unbuttoned France’s shirt. “C’mon, you need to change clothes.”
“Canada, I am impressed that you got in—Prussia keeps tight security—but I don’t think—you ought to leave before—“
“Just do it, please.” Canada stood and hauled France up. France clung to his shoulders, thin and weak, hair matted and tangled.
“Excuse my ruffled appearance,” France said, mouth twisting in a miserable smile.
“Shut up. Just—come on.”
England fiddled with his gloves and wet his lips on the tea Prussia gave him but he didn’t drink. He certainly didn’t trust Prussia that much. (Trust him enough to fuck him but not to drink his tea. Was that as strange as it sounded?) He said, “I don’t expect any details on the war from you. Though I will say, you are letting Germany run a bit off the map, aren’t you?”
“Germany isn’t under my control. I raised him as a soldier—not as my son.” Prussia winked. “That’s the difference between you and me. You tried to raise sons.”
“If you’re going to critique my past actions—you had best come up with something better. My empire was and is far larger than yours ever dreamt of.”
“I’m sure I could dream. And when we win, I will dream ever larger, England.”
“I look forward to crushing your dream.”
“Oh, hasn’t every country in the world heard that from you at least once? You love to crush the delicate dreams of the young, don’t you? I do hope that I get to come live in London when it’s all over.”
“Sentiment, Prussia?”
“No. I hate London. But I’ll enjoy rubbing it in your face. I can put up with some rain for that.”
England put his saucer and teacup down. “My record stands far longer than yours. I have never lost my island. Not since Rome.”
“But even Rome falls.” Prussia stood and he paced the room like a caged cat. “I suppose Japan will take Australia and New Zealand from you. Let him have a little empire in that corner of the world. I wonder what he’ll do to the two of them. His sentiment towards you is something he seems to keep to himself.”
“Good luck, taming those two brothers.”
Prussia paused at the window and looked back. “You know Japan will. He’s like you. He’ll brutalize them. In private. Where no one can hear them when they finally beg him.”
“Don’t confuse Japan for you.”
“Me? Hahaha! I like the spectacle! I like for people to know it when a nation surrenders to me! You and Japan, you’ll do it for your own satisfaction so that every time that nation looks at you, they’ll relive their surrender again and again and again. You’re a couple of kinky bastards. It’s no wonder you hate France so much because every time you want him to relive his surrender, he’ll talk about the time he fucked you against a wall.”
“Are you quite finished?”
“Did you really come all this way just so that wimp could see France? While he’s in there crying, we could have a go. Ha!”
“We could.” England looked thoughtful. “You don’t like having to take turns babysitting France.”
“It’s boring. Anymore, he just gets this weird, stony look to his face. He doesn’t even resist anymore. Takes all the fun out of it.”
England felt something in him spark. “Isn’t that sort of thing a sign of lack of discipline?”
Prussia stopped. Then he laughed. “You’re one to talk. What is this? Civilized era, civilized men sort of thing? This is war, England. Full out, no stops, war. And I intend to make the most of it.”
England stood as well, he didn’t approach Prussia but, rather, lazily circled him, slowly, methodically. “I can’t blame you for that but this is the twentieth century. Medieval warfare is over. You certainly don’t cling to the glorious past—but you do cling to war.”
“Wars are fun. They were more fun two or three hundred years ago.”
“I must be getting old. I don’t find myself getting the same thrills.” He came up behind Prussia, slowly, leisurely.
“That’s because this war is too structured. There isn’t the same chaos we used to go into. It’s not as much fun. Not as thrilling. Information travels so fucking fast that you have to keep your wits about you. That makes war more like chess.”
“War, a strategy game? You’re joking.”
“Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious.” Prussia turned to him and rolled his eyes. “I’m very good at strategy.”
England struck him.
Prussia staggered, tripped over the footstool. And England grabbed him, slammed his face into the corner of the chair.
“No,” said England, smiling. “I don’t think so.”
Blood was gushing from Prussia’s nose and mouth. “Son of a bitch,” he ground out, mouth gummy. “You fucking—“
England slammed his face down into the floor. “Hm?”
Prussia jolted in his hands and reared up, digging his fingers into England’s ribs and slamming him back. “Fuckin’ Redcoat.” He tackled him.
England hit the floor on his back and then Prussia was on him, grabbing his tie, grabbing his hair. England bucked, flipping himself. Prussia was stronger than he remembered—they grappled—he shoved a knee between England’s legs and pressed in. England choked, hips jerking and Prussia grinned and flushed their bodies together. “Sure you want to keep fighting?” He ground their hips together.
England arched, breath shortening; other hand reached out, fingers curling around a thin vase and he swung.
It slammed into Prussia’s head and he went down to the floor. England leapt up and kicked him, grabbed him by his lapels and threw him into the wall. When Prussia’s eyes came up this time, there was no humor in them. “You’re making me seriously want to kick the shit out of you, Redcoat.”
England smirked and straightened his gloves. “Come on then, Kraut.”
Prussia’s eye twitched and he flew at him.
England grabbed the knife from the butter dish and stabbed at him. Prussia barely dodged, the side of his cheek splitting open. He struck down, opening a line down the side of his neck. Prussia decked him and swept aside, grabbing up the tea table by its legs and slamming it down on him. England hunched, let it bust over his spine and grabbed a shard of broken china from the floor, whirling around and slicing. Prussia was grinning by now, jumping back and flitting forward again.
England blinked and jolted, looking at something on the floor.
Prussia looked down.
England slammed his fist into his face. “Really? Really, Prussia? You fell for that? Not even France falls for that.”
“France invented it, y’son of a bitch,” Prussia said, laughing, as he staggered to one side. “Think you cracked my jaw.”
“Well, if you’re not sure then I certainly didn’t do a very good job.” England cuffed him again.
“Oh, hell, that’s low, Redcoat.” Prussia stumbled into one of the chair and then grabbed the broken butter dish.
“As is everything that comes out of your mouth.” England moved, fast—and this felt like the other wars—he slammed into Prussia and stabbed with the knife and shard into his collar. He felt something hard and cold slam into the side of his head and his mind went fuzzy for a moment, but he twisted the knife. Heard Prussia grunt and then his eyes cleared and reached for his sidearm.
Prussia went for it at the same moment. “Fucking cheating!”
The empire slammed the butt into his face. “Hardly. I’m not going to fire. Wouldn’t want to alert the guards.” He did it over and over again until both of them were covered in red.
Prussia was still smiling, still struggling, though faintly. “Really are here to get France, aren’t you?”
“Unfortunately, I owe him.”
“I suppose I’ll have to pay you back later. All you had to do was ask, you know.”
“I’m afraid I don’t believe that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He hit him one last time in the face and Prussia shuddered and went limp.
England stood up and licked his lips, tasting Prussia’s metallic blood on them. He took off his blood-soaked gloves and raided the other’s pockets, digging out a set of keys and a handkerchief. He clipped them to his belt and flopped his bloody gloves down on Prussia’s face. Walking over to the mirror above the mantle, he spit on the handkerchief and cleaned up his face as best he could.
“I suppose I ought to hurry,” he said to his reflection; he smiled. “God forbid I have to kill all his men too.”
He went back to get his bloody gloves.
Canada was getting France into trousers when they heard the fight start in the next room. “They’re here—Canada, you must—“
“It’s fine. Stop thinking about them. Put your damn boots on.”
“Do you know who’s—“
“France!” He said, with such an air of desperation that France stopped. “Please!”
He nodded and Canada helped him get a new shirt on and did up the buttons for him. “I remember when I used to do this for you.”
Canada smiled, distracted.
“You look good in uniform, Canada. Though you’re better suited for blue.”
“It’s just a dress uniform.” An ominous quiet settled in the other room and Canada tensed, turning away from France. “There’s no gloves for you. You’ll have to go without.”
France held onto his chair. “Any port, of course.”
Canada looked out the window, where Prussia’s jeep was still sitting. The door creaked and he whipped around, hurrying to France’s side, getting in front of him—in case the wrong uniform came through that door. He hadn’t considered, until this moment, what he might do if England lost. There was always the window, he supposed.
But then the door opened and black slipped in. “Canada, is he ready?”
France went very still, eyes wide. “England?” He said, as if he had just sprouted another head. “What are you doing here?”
“What’s it look like, frog?”
“He’s ready,” said Canada. “Prussia?”
“Out cold. Let’s go.” He walked over to France, jamming a blood-covered butter knife into Canada’s belt. “Good, you took him out of uniform.” He put an arm around France and half-lifted him. “God, frog, you’ve lost weight. You’re as light and shallow as one of your plays.”
France didn’t say anything. For once, he seemed speechless.
Canada helped carry him downstairs and then took him as England dealt with the staff, speaking in crisp, harsh German and brushing them off. They got into the jeep. It wasn’t until England fumbled with the keys, looking for the correct one that one of them went upstairs.
There was a shout and a yell.
England got the jeep started and they took off.
Made for a helluva story. America blinked and came back to himself, staring down at a glass of whiskey he didn’t recall pouring.
But Christ, France, Japan—no. Nothing compared to the camps. He’d never get that out of his head. They hadn’t known exactly what had been going on…but they’d started finding them. The reports had started coming in from Germany, from Poland, from Allied units finding…
God…
He could still see them. America’s stomach turned and he closed his eyes, putting the glass down. He could smell it. The stench of rot, starvation and death. Hopelessness and fear—gaunt, walking corpses had approached his unit.
He stood there, watching them. His men held their guns lowered and stared with him.
“Sergeant,” America had said, faintly. “get your translator up here.”
The officer reached up and called to a man named Hayes, and they went to a man who wasn’t quite as dead-looking as the others. America flicked his fingers at his lieutenant to listen and walked away, deeper into the camp. It was in the middle of the forest. A pristine location. A young, skeleton man—might have been twenty-two, might have fifty-five, staggered up, weeping, saying in German, “Help us….you have come…”
America reached out, holding the man up, who collapsed into him. His throat closed. He had seen men with their insides torn out, blown to bits, watched his young troops get torn apart by Krauts, Italians, Japs and each other. Watched them become smokers and drinkers, watched them wake in terror in the night, quake in fox holes, read their Dear John letters, cry.
But nothing quite compared to the desolation and misery of what they found to be a concentration camp.
Suddenly, their lives didn’t seem so bad.
America had dreamed about Japan after the August of 1945 but for nearly all of the year beforehand, he dreamt about those camps.
England had not batted an eyelid at the report of the camps. Because he was England and he had seen such things. France, China and Russia had not been surprised either. Their people were, of course, because they were only human. They were young.
America had felt small by them and took no comfort when Canada had staggered in to him one day, telling him he’d found one too. England had attempted to talk to Canada, comforted him, got him a cup of warm tea with some honey and whiskey and sent him to France. As much as England lamented the youth of his four former wards, America got the feeling he was glad that he only had to comfort one of them. He had not done the same for America because, of course, America was different. Not part of the Commonwealth. Had declared his independence.
But, he was a hero, right? Right?
Yeah. So fuck that.
He stared at the stick-people, their skin practically transparent. Yeah, if he were such a fucking hero, he’d have known about the goddamn camps sooner—done something about them—but. Goddammit.
“That wasn’t my fault.” He stared at the whiskey. “There was no way I could have gotten to them. No way. I didn’t know the full extent…”
His voice broke in the middle. He slammed the whiskey back. “Goddammit…” He raised the glass and smashed it down. It shattered, shards and slivers ramming up into his fingers. He swore and cursed and got up, upsetting the desk, scattering his paperwork, lamp exploding when it hit the floor. His hand went to his forehead, smearing blood into his hair.
He destroyed his sitting room and wore himself out, eventually falling asleep midst the mess.
Truman offered for him to come to the White House for Thanksgiving. America declined. He had no family here. His brother still resented him. His other brothers were across the world. England and France and the rest were in Europe. America stayed in his house with the lights off. He sat on the porch and watched the snow fall and he drank from the bottle.
Snow.
He could hear it. Hear the ice forming. Hear the trees creak.
What battle had been like this?
Bastogne. Belgium. The Bulge. December of ’44 to January of ’45.
Little flickers before his eyes, twinkling ice became lights became bombs. Lit up the night. There was a ringing sound—whirling artillery blasting snow, screaming men—screaming in agony, for their mothers, for the fucking medic for the—
America dropped the bottle and jumped—the ringing, it wasn’t—it was the phone. He drug his hand down his face and ignored it.
It was probably just the government, wanting some advice on how to deal with Russia—fucking humans—couldn’t they open up a goddamn book sometime? All the times America wanted them to listen, it seemed like they didn’t and every time he wanted them to leave him the fuck alone, they wouldn’t.
Sometimes, he just wanted to be human. Sit down on an evening like this, build a fire, have some coffee or hot chocolate with a girlfriend or maybe a mom, talk with a dad about the war…that’d be nice.
“No wonder all the old nations are lonely and bitter. No wonder they can never truly disdain each other—because we’re all we’ve got…and even hate is something to cling to. Even hate is better than nothing.”
But it wasn’t the government. It was England. And he hung up the phone after the tenth or eleventh ring and looked across his desk.
“Nothing?” France murmured, sitting back in his chair.
“Nothing.”
“Canada has been telling you for months that he’s been acting strangely since the war ended.”
England snorted. “He’s a grown boy. He can—“
“England, were this Canada or Australia or any of the others—you would be concerned, don’t let your--“
“I know,” England sighed. He got up, straightened his shirt and went to his decanter, pouring himself a glass of bourbon. “If he’s not been smart enough to contact me by Christmas—then I’ll go and check on him.”
“England. He helped us save Europe—you owe him better than that. He’s alone over there. And now this tension between him and Russia—”
“He’s always going on about being the hero—“
France rolled his eyes. “What would you expect? After having to keep showing off to us so that we’ll take him seriously? If he was meek and modest he’d get brushed off like poor Canada. But he refuses to dog for us—so he exaggerates himself.”
“He got that from you.”
France’s eyes hooded. “He did. And it’s done him well. He fights what hurts his nation—after Pearl Harbor, we saw. But in some ways, he’s still very much a child. And in others, a man—a soldier.”
England looked out the window. The moon was high. The night half over. “He has never seen brutality like that.” He shook his head. “Canada and the others are fine—“
“They were invited to stay and you don’t know that they’re fine.”
“He was being a prat!” England whirled around. “Every other word was some cutting remark, some paranoid emphasis about why I was concerned about Japan! Sullen silences and wandering around in the middle of the night, stealing my cigarettes, drinking my whiskey and—“
“Well, it’s not as though you permit him weakness. He doesn’t have that with you. He always feels he has to be different around you.”
“And since when do you know him so well?”
“Because I don’t take the world as seriously as you. And I don’t brush off Canada as quickly.”
“I don’t brush him off! He—I am quite proud of him! He did very well in the war.”
“Not what I was saying, England.”
England put the bourbon down. “Our countries—the United Kingdom and the United States…are having better relations right now….than…we have since the Revolution.”
“I heard about that. They’re taking it seriously. Your governments are allying closely.” France rolled his eyes and took out a cigarette. “Don’t tell me you’re still having a great sulk about that?”
England came back with the glass, slumped into the chair. “Two hundred years is not such a long time for us.”
“It ought to be. Let it go. If I can’t even manage to hold a grudge against you—who are you to hold a grudge against anyone?”
“I have a grudge against you.”
“Well, that’s a given,” France laughed, waving his cigarette. “You can’t lie to me, Eyebrows. I know you.”
England looked at him and frowned, his eyes went back to his glass. “I don’t know what to say to him. I always assumed I knew everything about him. But…what he did…”
“It’s difficult to comprehend, a weapon with that kind of power but—better across the ocean than in the hands of Prussia. Had they got it first, we’d call them evil destructive murderers but since he developed it and then used it—we cringe from that kind of widescale death and destruction—but, you know what my first, honest to God thought was?”
England’s eyes came up again.
France smirked. “I thought of how nice that would have been to have back a hundred years ago. How that would have certainly simplified things.”
“France! That’s—“ England looked away again. “Fucking hell—that’s—“
“What? Sick? No, hahaha, not sick. That’s just how we nations think. Our humans don’t—generally, but us. We do. And I know you had that thought. I know it flickered through your mind. Because giving the order for that kind of weapon—having never tested it in war before—not having a clear idea of what it would do—that sort of thing comes from you.”
England glared at his glass. “I have done a great many terrible things in this world but I would not have thought to—“
“Don’t pull that gentleman act on me, England. I don’t believe a word of it. And neither does anyone else. You spend all this time trying to convince yourself that you’re a gentleman? Ha. Feel free to fool the young ones but don’t insult those of us who watched you grow up.”
For a long moment, England was quiet. He lifted the glass to his lips and sipped from it and silently damned France for understanding.
“God, America, I thought you’d died.”
“What do you want?”
Canada blinked at his wall calendar, took the phone from his ear, looked at it and then replaced it. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing—sorry, just, what is it?”
“Australia and New Zealand said they hadn’t been able to get ahold of you. I was wondering if you were going to come to here for Christmas.” Canada fiddled with his ink pen and looked out his window, snow flakes lit by the decorations in his house. “They’re coming and England and France are coming.”
“No…, I don’t think so.” America’s voice sounded harsh, rough, like he was very ill and hadn’t shaved in awhile.
“America—you love Christmas. What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You aren’t, America. Is it this business with Russia?”
“No, fucking no. Just—“
“I know you guys were okay before he went—“
“Canada! I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”
“But—“
The phone clicked and the line went silent.
Fighting alongside England had brought Canada closer to him, especially when they had gone together to get France. Purposely playing the role of weakling to keep Prussia off his guard had enabled the two of them to get France out. And they’d made it all the way to the airfield before shots were fired.
England drove, taking the jeep over fence and bursting through barricades. He threw his sidearm to Canada and the young nation dunked France into the bottom of the jeep and stood, cap flying off. He leaned back against the windshield and started firing into the fast approaching jeep behind them.
“Canada! Hang on!” England jerked on the wheel and the whole vehicle slid.
Canada grabbed onto the windshield with one hand and reached down into England’s breast pocket with the other, getting another clip of ammo. Metal pinged around them with little sparks. Canada reloaded and started firing again, blowing out the tires of the other jeep.
England slammed on the brakes and they both jumped out.
“You’re almost empty! Do you have another clip?” Canada picked up France.
“It doesn’t matter. We can get weapons from the Krauts.”
France shifted and wheezed and straightened himself. “Hurry and let go. I can run.”
“No, you can’t. Shut up,” Canada snapped and he tossed France over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry as he and England ran side by side.
It was strange. Almost like a dance. When men came at them, Canada fired or England moved. And when England moved, the world seemed to slow down. He was graceful, powerful—he grabbed a man by his cross, slammed the head into his knee, flipped the body, grabbed the rifle and in a flash he had it on automatic fire and mowed down his comrades.
They kept going. Canada followed England even as they ran into a thick of soldiers that were guarding their plane. England tore into them as if they were simply pesky weeds and he opened up the cockpit door. “They siphoned our fuel. Stay here and fight them, Canada. I’m going to go get some.” And he was gone.
Canada put France under the plane and gave him the sidearm.
They had rifles, Canada did not but he wasn’t thinking about that when he ran at them. He had out the knife England had given him and that’s all he was aware of. The cool, sticky silver in his hand as he whirled, blinded by gunfire and blood burst over him. He had the rifle in a flash and there was some screaming and everything was blurry…
…and when silence fell and Canada came back to himself, he was alone, except for France. He was panting, chest heaving as he looked down at all the bodies. He was covered in blood, though his scarlet uniform made that more difficult to see. But he could feel the warmth of it; how it was making his hair clump together. He shook a little as he knelt to the uniform of one of the men, avoiding looking at his face (Germans didn’t look so different from Canadians) and rooted through his pockets. He found the man’s cigarettes and took them, lighting one and sucking on it.
England returned. He looked over the carnage and gave him an approving nod.
“Canada…Canada…” France was struggling to get up. “Come here, boy. Now.”
Canada did so, grabbing his arms. “What’s wrong? Were you hit?”
“No,” France wheezed and his hands went to Canada’s jacket, trying to open it. “But you were. We have to hurry, or the Germans will shoot us down when we fly across.”
Canada looked down and suddenly saw the holes in his uniform. Several of them. “Oh,” he said, stupidly. “Oh.” It hadn’t hurt until France pointed it out to him.
The flight back was all a blur to Canada; of pain and light and flashing and roars. He could hear his own panting breath very well but not much besides. France held him, he felt that. France held him the entire trip back, while England flew the plane.
When he fully awoke, his chest hurt and there was England and France, sitting by his cot. England was stroking his hair and forehead and France was holding his hand.
“You did well, Canada. I’m very proud of you,” England murmured, a faint smile on his lips.
Canada licked his lips and smiled back, exhausted. “Thanks…”
“Are you all right? Does it hurt?” France inquired, shifting and reaching up to touch his face.
“No, he hung up on me.” Canada sighed and paced his kitchen. “I don’t know. He won’t say. Tch—I’m not going to—no, England! I called his boss! He’s been ignoring them too. He’ll throw me out if I try to go there.”
England looked up from his desk, sneering a little at France. “All right, I understand—I—yes, all right. I know, it’s only a week out. We’ll be there. I’ll go and try to talk to America. Canada—I know. All right. Go and sleep. Yes, all right. Good night.”
England placed the phone back in its cradle and nodded at France. “I’m going. Quit looking at me like that.”
Since the invention of electric Christmas lights (fairy lights), America had insisted upon them and every year, he decorated inside his house in whatever new style had come out. America always insisted that Canada come and see it—and so England had known about it for a very long time and then actually saw it during the first Great War.
So when the taxi arrived, England nearly double-checked the address because this house could not be America’s. This house was dark, out and in. Foreboding. He peered up at it.
“This’a place, yeah?” said the cabbie.
“Yes, I do believe so. It just—looks a bit different than I’m used to.”
“Maybe he’s already in bed, gov’nor.”
“We will see. Thank you, sir.” England paid the man and grabbed his bag and got out. Did he say governor? He fought a smile, which faded anyway when he walked up the snowy driveway. America clearly had not shoveled and the porch was a mountain to climb but, somehow, England managed it. He let his bag sink into the snow, looked out into the early evening darkness and looked back at the door.
“America!” He pounded on it.
He waited for thirty seconds but no lights came on and there was no sound from the house. His car was still in the driveway and no footprints led away from the front door. England scowled. “America!” He bellowed. “You open this door! I know you’re in there!”
The house seemed to creak, floorboards settling. The snow shifted in the wind and whirled around England’s boots. His eyebrow twitched. “You insolent little sod! Ignore me, will you! I’ll have your boots for that!” He lifted his boot and slammed it into the door.
The whole frame shook and crunched. England aimed his next kick nearer the knob and when his boot came in, the door banged open. Cold air struck him, somehow colder than outside.
England put his boot down, primly picked up his bag and went into the house. He slammed the door and put a chair against it to keep it closed. He turned on the lights. “America?”
Silence answered him. The place was dusty, England saw as he toured each room. The kitchen was unused, windows dirty. The living room had a couple empty bottles in the middle of the floor and the phone unplugged from the wall. The fireplace was sooty and dark and cold. The sitting room made England stop and push the door open all the way. The handsome cherry wood writing desk toppled and cracked. Broken glass was all over the floor, along with flecks of blood. The lamp lay smashed on its side, the windows were broken, the remains of a bottle of whiskey, syrupy against the wall and books laying everywhere...
England’s frown deepened and some inherent instinct rose to the front of his mind, bypassing all the pride and guilt and uncertainty. He whirled around and hurried, stomach clenching. He dropped his bag and ran up the stairs, hardly noticing how every second seemed to have him moving faster. Dusty picture frames winked by him, some of them broken as well, testament to bloody finger prints. He took the corner hard, clipping it with his shoulder and then he was bursting into America’s room.
His eyes took it in in a flash. Empty. The bed was a mess, sheets torn, floor littered with cigarette butts and reeking of alcohol.
“Where…” He whipped around and opened the next room. Nothing. The next and the next and th—and England stopped, looking up a last, lonely staircase. That was the attic. He had never been up there. America had always been rather particular about that room. It was always locked. He didn’t give it another thought. He raced up, shoes thumping and he shouldered the door open. “America!”
He heard a stifled sound in the darkness. England crept because God knew what the hell America was doing up here. He peered and…
…there he was.
Leaning against the wall, sitting down, back against a wooden crate. There was another empty bottle beside him, as well as several sticks, barely visible in the dark. England went to him, kneeling. “America?”
America didn’t move. His glasses were dirty and smeared with grime. His eyes were dull and listless.
England glanced down at the sticks and for a second, he froze. He moved a hand down to the familiar wooden soldier and picked it up. He still has these. He never got rid of them. And a different, suffocating feeling clutched at his chest. He dropped the soldier and reached out, putting his hands on America’s face. “I should have come sooner.”
America jumped, eyes flashing for a moment and then drained. He opened his mouth, as if to say something but then couldn’t seem to find the words. He just stared at England.
The lost look struck some strange cord in England. Something he had never imagined and he leaned in and wrapped his arms around him. America buried his eyes in England’s shoulder, shaking. He spoke then, voice a ragged creak. “I didn’t know. I…didn’t…”
“Hush,” England murmured, moving his fingers into America’s hair. “Come. Come downstairs. Get out of this darkness.”
“I tried to get him to surrender.”
“America, get up.”
“I’m sorry.”
England didn’t answer. He pulled America’s arm over his shoulder and stood, pulling the other with him. Somehow, the two of them stumbled down the stairs to the living room, where England dumped America onto the couch and went back outside, gathering wood from the garage to build a fire. When that was done, he gathered blankets and went to America, who was sitting, looking slightly dazed.
“Your clothes are filthy. You should change them, America.” England could not look into his face, his fingers just went to the buttons, opening them up.
America shuddered but didn’t answer. “It’s cold…”
“That’s what happens in the bloody winter, you know. That’s why we invented indoor heating.”
America looked down, eyes dimming. “My people are happy. The war is over. They are happy. Buying houses. Having kids. Getting along with people internationally.”
“We all must rebuild to some degree. You just…you don’t have to rebuild your country. Just, yourself.”
“But if I represent them, then I should be happy too.”
England turned away, going back upstairs and getting him fresh clothes. When he came back, he said, “Sometimes it’s not as simple as that. Put these on.”
America did. “I always said I was a hero because I wanted to believe that what I was doing was right.”
“It was.”
America smiled; it was bitter. “I should have guessed about the death camps. The small ones were terrible enough…but the big ones…” his voice shook. “…with the ovens.”
“Stop.”
“…fresh—still warm, some of them. The people—the sheer amount of suffering…if I were…”
“But you didn’t know. None of us did. Stop that nonsense. There was no way you could have known and no way you wouldn’t have acted if you had.”
America looked at his knees.
“As far as Japan goes—“
“I’m going to help Japan! I’m going to, I fucking swear—you doubted me! They all did! But I was the one in the Pacific! I was the one who shipped out and saw some of—my boys—the island hopping—thousands dead because that bastard would never just fucking surrender! He’d never surrender! He’s like you! You know how often I thought of that?! The Japanese rarely surrender. They’re good men but they put me in a corner. It was either lose another hundred thousand men or get them under the fuck control! I did what I had to! I—“
“America!”
“Did you ever fucking ask Australia and New Zealand what it was like? Europe was fucking soft compared to what happened in the Pacific. More than once—Australia and I—we looked after New Zealand. He’d never seen that shit before! But Australia…he found the ones in Japan—that housed the camps for the Chinese—Unit seven-thirty-one. He—”
America jogged up, covered in dirt and sweat, to New Zealand. “Hey, where’s Australia?”
New Zealand pointed behind him. “Intelligence says this might be a POW camp. He went in to look.”
America looked up at the walls. “Huh—this far—ugh, it smells terrible. Do you smell that?”
“Well, sanitation—prob’ly none, yeah? Don’t suppose I could have a bit of that candy?”
“What candy?” America grinned.
“The candy in your pocket! Your people send chocolate and cigarettes and ice cream and candy. C’mon, mate, please?”
America laughed and took it out. “You know I won’t get more for awhile.”
“I’m the youngest, I ought to get more than you.”
“Yeah right!”
Australia staggered out of the gates, gagging.
“See,” said New Zealand, untwisting a paper-wrapped cube. “Oh, yeh—what’s the matter? Too many guts for you? Cor, got to do everythin around here, do I? Were our mates in there?”
Australia put a hand on the wall and vomited.
“Aussie?” America furrowed his eyebrows. “You all right?”
“Yeah, what is it? Some gas remain? Want me to go in an’ check it out?” New Zealand pointed at the gates and took a step towards them. “I’ll put a mask on.”
“N-no!” Australia choked, coughed and surfaced. His fist flashed out and he grabbed New Zealand by his uniform and jerked him back. “No!”
America felt a tinge of misgiving at those haunted eyes. Not that. Dammit, not that. “Australia—“
“Oi, what’s wrong with you?” New Zealand looked more concerned than angry. “What’s in there?”
Australia looked up at America and their eyes met. He was trembling, shaking his head.
America’s shoulders sank and his eyebrows went up. “Son of a bitch.”
Australia swallowed, looked down and then up. “Yeh.”
“God.” America shoved his hands into his hair.
New Zealand looked between them. “Is it…one of those camps? Like the ones in Europe?”
“I’ll go take a look. New Zealand, take Australia back and get him some water.”
“And then what?” England asked, softly.
“Australia wasn’t quite the same after he saw that. I kept an eye on him and he had New Zealand, of course.” America was looking down again. “He made me promise not to tell you. Said you had enough to worry about. Wasn’t a big deal.”
“Did he cry?”
America threw England a sharp, nasty glare. “Yeah. He did. But if you think for one goddamn second I’m going to let you—“
England swiftly held up his hands. “I’m not, America. I’m not.”
America relaxed, just slightly and looked down. “He cried and he had nightmares. New Zealand slept at his side every night…but eventually, he came to me because New Zealand hadn’t seen it and we wouldn’t let him. But he knew I had…so we talked about it for a long time and had a couple drinks and a couple packs of cigarettes. After a half-dozen times of that, he seemed okay. But after that, I made sure I looked into the camps we found.”
“You didn’t let them go in.”
“No.”
England snorted softly. “How like you. You know, when I was a boy—“
“I know, I know. You and Russia and France and Prussia and China—you all are such hardcore badasses, aren’t you? You guys know fuckin everything. You guys have seen it all since you were toddlers. I get it.”
“I wasn’t insulting you. I’m glad they didn’t have to see it.”
America went quiet, staring down at his knees again.
“You have done very well by your brothers.”
The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Careful. You’re dangerously close to claiming me.”
“I do in some ways. God help me.” England put his elbows on his knees. “And my government has seen fit to claim you.”
“Yeah, I read about it in the paper last month. Churchill and FDR really got on, didn't they...” He huffed and quoted, "We should not abandon our special relationship with the United States and Canada about the atomic bomb and we should aid the United States to guard this weapon as a sacred trust for the maintenance of peace."
They were quiet for a moment.
“Allow me,” England began, slowly, “to apologize for not coming sooner. Had I realized how hard you were taking this, I would have come sooner.”
“I woulda been fine.”
“You didn’t decorate your house. You are worse off than I thought.”
“What has my house got anything to do with it?”
“It's normally visible from three streets away.”
America smiled a little and looked sidelong at him. His eyes changed, saying what he couldn’t voice.
England reached up, running a thumb over his cheek. “You need a shave—but, for now, sleep. I’m exhausted and you need a proper rest.” He stood.
“England, I—“
“Well, of course,” England went on briskly, as if he hadn’t heard him start to speak, “you’ll have to budge up to make room for me. As it’s so bleeding cold in here. If I turn on the heat now it might even be warm by morning.” He turned away, taking off his jacket and hanging it up.
America watched him move around the house and fought with himself—whether he should feel relieved or guilty but in the end, as England came back to him and curled up on the couch next to him, he decided he just didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around him and England curled his fingers into America’s shirt.
“Sometimes, I think I want war again.”
England glanced back from the stove and nodded a little. “That’s fairly normal for our kind. War is the time where everything is less uncertain than usual and you feel a sense of unity.” He looked into a pan of mostly burnt sausages. “War has this way of making you feel more alone than you have ever felt but, in the same token, making you less lonely than you were before.”
“Does that ever go away?” America’s eyes were on his coffee.
“It did for me once I learned to make use of my allies after the wars were over. I stopped spending all my time by myself. And…when I reached a certain point, I stopped—er—unnecessary fooling about.”
“What made you reach that point?”
England’s profile changed, as if a ripple had gone through him, and his eyes softened. “I found you.”
America’s eyes lifted from his coffee. “That’s so sappy.”
“Shut up, ungrateful little moron. Getting rid of Napoleon helped too.”
America ate everything England cooked for him, praised it and enjoyed it and asked for more.
England understood. He invited America to help him destroy a bowl of pancake batter.
America pulled his elbow towards the ceiling to make room for England to duck under it and examine his chin in the mirror.
“You should try out a beard, England.”
England looked at him as if he’d just suggested he go and lick a cat. “Certainly not.”
America laughed and finished smearing soap on his face, grabbing a razor. “Might make you look a little older.”
“I’m not growing a beard. I’d never hear the end of it from France. I haven’t had a beard in—I don’t know. I know I tried it once—I hated it.”
“I kinda want to see that.”
“You do it then.”
“No, Canada did it once—and he looked weirdly like France. So I would too—if I ever forgot to trim my hair. And I don’t need to get at yelled at for the things he does.”
England rolled his eyes and grabbed up America’s soap. “Somehow, I think Canada would see that as justice.” He leaned closer to the mirror, examining his skin critically and then smearing lather on it.
America smiled, remembering another time, in another room that he’d knocked the walls from and rebuilt over the years. Of the early winter morning, the glow of a lantern and looking up, watching England shave in the dim looking-glass. The memory was faint and fond and he smiled to himself and looked back to the mirror, watching England for just another moment and then raising the blade to continue.
The entire time they were there, England never remembered to plug the phone back into the wall.
They made it on time, standing together in front of Canada’s house. The snow was thick but the drive shoveled and swept. England adjusted his scarf and hat and mittens and looked sidelong at America. His face tinted by the Christmas tree that was glimmering in the window. He had come back to himself very quickly in some ways—seemingly just needing someone else around him to remind him that he was still alive. But something, England could see the shadows of something in his eyes but whatever it was, America would either tell him, or he wouldn’t. To press would annoy him, insult him.
“They’ll be glad to see you. Canada was worried,” England said, briskly, sweeping snowflakes off his long, black coat.
“I’ll have to apologize to him.” He ran his fingers along the car door. “Later, maybe.”
“He would probably like that.”
America snorted and looked over at him. “Yeah, you’d like to see it, wouldn’t you?”
England chuckled. “I would.”
“Well, you won’t, you bastard.” America was smirking, meeting England’s eyes—and some measure of warmth passed between them, something thickened the air and made England look away.
“Well,” he said, “shall we go in now, or wait for them to notice us out here?”
“Oh yeah, we came to see them, didn’t we?”
England rolled his eyes and nudged him with his elbow. He started up the steps of Canada’s porch, arms bowed awkwardly for balance. “It’s icy. Be careful.”
“I know—I’d be more worried about you. What do you know about snow?” America followed him.
“It snows in London, you daft fool!”
The door flew open, casting a warm, golden rectangle over the both of them.
“Hey! It’s England!” And New Zealand came bounding through the door and slammed into him.
England seemed to realize what was about to happen about two seconds before it did. He raised his arms, saying, “No—don’t—!” But the damage was done and he slipped on the ice and England tumbled backwards.
America yelped and grabbed him and they landed in a three-man pile on the ground. “God dammit, Zea! What the hell!”
France laughed from the top of the porch, dressed handsomely in a sweater. “I thought that arguing sounded familiar.”
Australia was laughing too but he came down the steps and swept New Zealand up, throwing him over his shoulder. “Why do you have to be such a—“
“Hey! Put me down, y’rotten—!”
“England, are you all right?” That was Canada, coming down and offering his hand, helping England to his feet.
“Yes, yes, of course.” He cast around. “Where’s my hat—and God and the Queen, New Zealand, so help me, I will wring your neck—“
“Here it is,” America pulled the cap up and dumped the snow out of it and then managed to clamor up.
England took it, lips pressed thin and started back up the stairs, holding onto the railing. He whipped his gloves off. “France, get in here and show me where to put my coat!”
America put his hands in his pockets and met Canada’s eyes. “Hey.”
Canada nodded. “Hey.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Canada smiled, something warmer in it. “Yeah.” He clapped America’s shoulder. “We’ve got hot chocolate.”
“It’s the best, really,” added Australia. He nodded at America too. “Good t’see yeh, finally.”
“Hey, Yank,” said New Zealand, waving from Australia’s shoulder.
America chuckled and mussed his hair. “Let’s try it then. Would take a lot to beat Spain’s hot chocolate.”
They went up the stairs together.
--
Haha, if I didn't know better, I'd say I was developing a family complex.
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Date: 2009-07-11 03:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-11 03:40 pm (UTC)