Goodbye, Brother [4/?]
anonymous
April 14 2010, 05:42:56 UTC
A light thump on America’s head makes the boy pout at his father figure. “You cheeky little brat,” England mutters, no malice in his words, only that warm, loving affection America greedily devours like a hungry babe. “What happened to the sweet boy I remember? You’ve turned into a scoundrel, America,” he teases gently.
“It’s because Engwand always leaves me!” America cries accusingly, glaring sulkily at the green-eyed nation, whose eyes widened in surprise at the sudden tantrum. “He always leaves me all alone!”
America can’t help but rise against the accusation, hurt by England’s words. If England had stayed with him, he would’ve been able to see how much America had grown in the years he’d been away. He’d grown at least two inches since England left for the motherland, and he’d finally learned how to write his name in cursive too. He’d learned a lot of new things and made lots of new friends from the nearby town. He’d even started going to the town by himself, no long scared of the villagers because England had taught that him that they were all his people.
He continues to sulk stubbornly, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes when England draws him into a hug. America loves England’s hugs as much as he loves his smiles, so when England neatly tucks him in his arms, he snuggles into the bigger nation’s chest despite that he is still angry.
“My sweet, beautiful America,” England sighs, and there is sadness in his voice as well as a tired smile. “My darling, golden boy, you know I can’t always stay with you.”
“You could,” America whispers, too headstrong to be the first one to give in. “If you really loved me, you would stay with me forever.”
“If I could I would,” England states, and America can feel no dishonesty from him. “I am most fond of you, America, you know this.”
“Liar,” America is quick to deny, even though he knows England does care for him; but he hates being left alone and he can’t help but wish England would stay with him more. “You have that what’s-his-name up in the North.” He sniffles, eyelashes wet with his tears. “You like him more than you like me.” And America hates that. He hates that because England shouldn’t love anyone more than he loves America.
England blinks, momentarily confused. Realization dawns on him quickly, and he smiles, a light chuckle seeping past his lips. “Don’t be mean to your brother, America. You haven’t even met the boy yet.”
“Engwand is my only brother.” America frowns, lips pursued stubbornly. “And I’m your favorite, right? You love me more than that what’s-his-name and all your other colonies, right?” What did India have to offer England? Or the Bahamans, or even Jamaica? America could offer England much more then all of them put together. Who cared if Barbados’s sugar plantations played a big key in making England’s precious tea? America was much more cuter and sweeter than sugar.
Goodbye, Brother [5/?]
anonymous
April 14 2010, 05:49:53 UTC
He bites his lower lip anxiously when England doesn’t say anything, becoming increasingly frustrated with the silence. The tears come back, and once he sees this, England closes his eyes and shakes his head, a secret smile on his face. “America, don’t be spoiled. I love all my children,” he says gently, with the air of a wise father figure and America feels that old, funny little ache return.
“But yes, I do admit I have a bit of soft spot for you,” England concludes, a soft dust of pink on his cheeks. He coughs, not looking America in the eye any longer. America blinks at the new development, his tears traded in exchange for attentive fascination; he’s never seen England act so unlike himself before. It’s…
…enchanting. Yes, that’s the word. (Won’t his stuffy old tutor be proud of him for remembering such a big word. And he said America never paid attention, ha.)
“But that does not mean you can take special privileges with me, America.” England’s stern, no-funny-business face returns, and he is once again the same old England as before. America can’t help but feel disappointed. That had been a really cute face England had just made. “I expect you to grow up into a fine young man, which is why you should listen to your tutors while I am gone. No colony of mine will bring shame to the Mother Country.”
America would never do that. England is the Mother Country, which is why America would never do anything to shame the person most important to him. America is happiest when England is happiest; he would do almost anything to win one of England’s melting smiles.
He was doing his best to grow up as soon as possible so he could take care of England like England took care of him. America wasn’t blind to the injuries England sometimes came with when he came to visit him, and every one of them spurred America’s desire to grow up big and strong so he could protect England from anything and everything. Just like in the fairytales England read to him at night, America wanted to be England’s hero.
One day America would be a big, strong hero, and then he would be able to make sure no one ever hurt England again.
“I love you, Engwand,” he murmurs quietly, his arms locking around the his colonizer’s neck. He does not see England’s look of utter devotion, or the happy smile that blooms on his lips, or even the pink blush that takes over his cheeks at hearing America’s words. “I love you.”
“I love you too, America.” Drawing him closer, England places a chaste kiss on his forehead, his lips warm to the touch. “You’re my precious little boy after all. My golden, beautiful baby boy.”
America smiles at that, enormously happy. He snuggles against England’s chest, feeling triumphant and proud. “So I’m the favorite, right?”
The favorite. Of course America is the favorite. He will always be number one in England’s heart, America would make sure of that.
And if someone else came along, well, America would just have to get rid of the competition.
It was as simple as that.
---
Random!Anon here to say that the cute, brotherly years are done with; up next, the start of puberty~
Re: Goodbye, Brother [5/?]
anonymous
April 14 2010, 13:37:59 UTC
The cute, brotherly years were adorable, anon. I love your writing. I know the next parts are going to be fantastic, and I can't wait to read about America's puberty (and perhaps his changing feelings toward England). I am loving this fill!
Re: Goodbye, Brother [5/?]
anonymous
April 14 2010, 14:16:19 UTC
I'm amused how everyone is commenting on the cute when there's so much DARK UNDERCURRENT here. <3 How America doesn't understand about the servants, 'get rid of the competition' . . . yeah. Heee. For completely different reasons. Goo job so far, anon, I look forward to the rest.
Re: Goodbye, Brother [5/?]
anonymous
April 14 2010, 15:27:21 UTC
I'm utterly fascinated at the darker parts of America's posessiveness, even when he's so young; get rid of the competence indeed. Interesting that he seems to keep this goal of 'protecting England' in mind even after the independenceXD. Aw, and the sweetness ♥ Little America has acquired a taste for embarassed blushing England, hehe. And England, you really can't defend yourself against all that cute together, can you? I liked the detail about the salves, by the way ;)
Re: Goodbye, Brother [5/?]
anonymous
April 15 2010, 15:14:03 UTC
Hello~ This is the anon who was asking desperately for it to be filled.. and oh my god you're doing amazing job Author!anon!! I love baby!America but.. I hate to think that they would have a father-son relationship when they fall in love *makes me a little sick* and the scenes you're writing are perfect. So much love and care but none of that horrible, pedophilic wrongness. You're able to capture exactly what I love about little Alfred ^^
[i]He was doing his best to grow up as soon as possible so he could take care of England like England took care of him. America wasn’t blind to the injuries England sometimes came with when he came to visit him, and every one of them spurred America’s desire to grow up big and strong so he could protect England from anything and everything. Just like in the fairytales England read to him at night, America wanted to be England’s hero.[/i]
This is /just/ what Alfred should be like. Oh, I cannot wait for Alfie's puberty and... how he starts to realise that he likes England..differently :'D Lovely job Author!anon. Keep it up!
Re: Goodbye, Brother [5/?]
anonymous
April 15 2010, 23:13:07 UTC
Random!Author!anon is glad OP is finding this to her tastes :D
FFFF that's exactly why, despite liking USxUK like crazy, I shy away from writing it xD In my head, I can't help but think of them as being *real* brothers which in turn equals incest, orz orz. Anywho, the "brotherly years" had to be written for the sake of my soul, as I could not bring myself to write straight out smut without giving this fill some semblance of plot lolol.
Expect the start of puberty chapters tonight, as I am still in university so, cannot write right now :DDD
Re: Goodbye, Brother [5/?]
anonymous
April 16 2010, 01:36:50 UTC
Oh dear, I'm not the original OP D: ... but oh how much I wish I was!! But... this doesn't make me love it any less xD Seriously though... you just continue with it and I know you'll make it good. And.. don't worry they're not 'real' brothers so.. it's not incest, everything is fine and well for our conscience XD Also... the plot is necessary! It just wouldn't be the same without it...and dear lord, you're gonna have some big dentist bills to pay xD ....Was going to go to sleep soon *it's 2:35 already* but.... since puberty chapters start tonight I may stay a little longer xDD
Goodbye, Brother [6/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:28:41 UTC
America always dreads bath time.
Every time one of the nannies in charge of taking care of him comes to get him, whether he’s outside playing with the town’s children or in the library with his stuffy tutor, America barricades himself in the nearest shelter and refuses to come out and face the enemy.
He goes to ridiculous lengths to avoid taking his baths, going so far as to camp out in the forest with his animal friends for days. He sends the maids and butlers into a frenzy whenever he pulls one of his stunts, and at the end of the day when he is finally caught, he is reprimanded for his behavior.
America takes the scolding with a stubborn tilt of his chin and a childish pout on his lip, his arms crossed over his chest. He refuses to show weakness to the enemy-and they are the enemy, because they’re the ones who, every night without fail, force him to get in the tub and scrub the grime and dirt off him until he’s left as a fresh as a baby’s bottom.
America has never been fond of taking baths; he’d much rather play and have fun all day. After all, what was the point of playing in the mud if you were just going to get clean hours later? America doesn’t understand why he couldn’t just not take a bath. It was stupid.
“Master Kirkland will be very unhappy if he shows up and you greet him looking like this,” his old nursemaid huffs, clicking her tongue in disapproval when her eyes set on the grass stains on America’s clothes. It had been raining for the past couple of days, and the mud on the boy’s clothes was proof he’d skipped his lessons to play outside.
At this, America draws to attention. “Arthur? Arthur is coming?” The excitement in his voice is palpable, as is the blindingly delighted smile on his cherubic face.
The old nursemaid softens at the sight. She’d meant to keep the news to herself for a little longer, if only to punish the boy for skipping his lessons, but that smile always won her over. It was no wonder the Master could never say no to his young charge. “Yes, Master Kirkland sent word he would be coming for a visit. He’ll be arriving by ship any day now.”
It had been years since England last visited America; in fact, the last time England visited him had been when America faked being ill. (He’d gotten a stern scolding for that, but America hadn’t cared; England had stayed for two more weeks after all, and that’s what mattered.)
America is excited to show him how much he’s grown, positive England would be proud of his quick expansion. The day he learns England is coming, he asks his nannies to dress him in his best clothes, and he even goes through the painful, not to be mention annoying, hassle of taking a bath. But if it was for England, then America would do it.
Today was a great day, and nothing could possibly ruin it.
-Except that something does, and it comes in the shape of a boy who shares the same face as him.
“America, this is your brother Canada.”
America’s first instinct is to sock Canada in the face.
Goodbye, Brother [7/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:34:58 UTC
But not because he dislikes the Northern nation, or because he finds him appalling, and not even because Canada is about two inches or so taller than him.
It’s because England is holding his hand, smiling encouragingly at him. Because England is smiling at Canada like he does at a America, and America rips off one of his stuffed bunny’s ears with a harsh, tearing sound.
Looking down at his stuffed toy, America becomes even angrier when he sees it’s the stuffed animal England just recently brought him that he’s destroyed.
Stupid Canada.
Canada hides behind England’s legs, peering shyly at a America. “H-hello,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m Canada.”
There’s a bear clutched to his chest, and America thinks its stupid looking. Actually, everything about Canada is stupid looking, not just his bear. Never mind that their faces look eerily similar, America is obviously the cutest of the two.
England doesn’t seem to think so though; he dotes on Canada like he dotes on America, he hugs and carries them both, and he even lets Canada crawl on his lap when it’s story time. America has half a mind to kick the other province off, but he has a nagging feeling England would get mad at him and cancel story time altogether. So he refrains, but grudgingly and just barely.
When England leaves them alone to make tea and scones, America jumps off his seat and stares his nose down at Canada. He crosses his arms, taking in the competition.
“He’s mine, so don’t get close to him,” he warns the other child, mutilated bunny at his side.
“Eh?” Canada blinks, and squeaks when cerulean eyes glare at him.
“England,” America says, pronouncing each letter slowly. “He’s my big brother, and you can’t have him.”
Canada looks confused, and just when America is about to raise the ruined bunny and bring it down on the other province’s head, England walks in with tea and scones. Glaring at Canada one last time, America pivots and run to catch England around his waist with a giant smile on his face, the picture of innocence. “England, England!” he giggles, holding his arms up. “Up?”
England picks him up with one arm, carrying the tray with the other one. He sets the tray down on the table, and pushes it closer to Canada. “Help yourself, love,” he offers, smiling warmly at the young province.
Riding on England’s arm, America glares icily at Canada. The message is clear: Don’t. You. Dare. England’s horrible cooking was for America’s taste buds only. If someone was going to get a stomachache and be sick all over the expensive rug, it was going to be America.
Canada wilts under America’s glare, and he quickly shakes his head. His voice trembles. “N-no thank you, England.”
England frowns, about to push the matter but America quickly draws the empire’s attention back to him. He’s not about to let Canada hog England all to himself. America was here first, and therefore it made sense that he should get to call first dibs.
By the time the sun sets, America has managed to overshadow Canada in absolutely everything, and he’s mighty proud of himself. This would show the Northern nation not to barge into his perfectly happy life with England.
Goodbye, Brother [8/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:38:32 UTC
But of course, once the sun sets, the dreaded hour arrives, as does the enemy.
“But I don’t want to take a bath, England!” America cries, latching onto the older nation’s middle.
England winces at the force his charge’s little hands are holding onto him, the colony‘s angelic baby face and preteen body belying his true strength. Nonetheless, he smiles down at the boy and musses his hair. “Then you shouldn’t have played in the mud in the first place, my sweet.”
America shakes his head back and forth furiously, tears pooling in his baby blues. His bottom lip quivers, and England feels his resolve weakening. He coughs, composing himself. “America, poppet, it won’t kill you to take a bath. Did I not raise you to be a gentleman? A gentleman does not sleep in his own filth.”
“I like sleeping in my own filth,” America grumbles, careful not to bruise England with his grip. “Sleeping in my own filth is fun.”
England clicks his tongue in dissatisfaction, and America takes a second to observe how the empire furrows his brow, the way his gloved fingers drum against his hips, and the way his green eyes narrow slightly only to soften seconds later. England‘s expressions have always been so fascinating to America. “Perhaps you wish to take a bath with Canada? That way you will get to know each other better.”
“No!” America shakes his head, pouting. “I want to take a bath with England!”
England runs a hand through his hair, a thoughtful look coming to his face. “How about we all take a bath together, hmm? Canada is a bit shy, but he’s a good boy, dearest.”
America whines in distress, stomping his feet. “England!”
In the end, despite America’s many protests, he finds himself in the tub, with England and Canada at his side. America is in such a bad mood that he can’t even properly enjoy England’s company. He blames this on Canada too, for ruining his alone time with England.
He hates having another brother. Why couldn’t it just be England and him forever? America has never been any good at sharing.
“You’ll come visit again, won’t you, dear Canada?” England is in such a good mood. His smile is so wide America fears it might split his face in two. “I won’t always be here of course, but you can come play with our America. It can’t be all that healthy for you to spend so much time with that French idiot.”
Canada fights off a smile at the empire’s comment on his current guardian. He ducks his head shyly. “Yes. I’d like that very much, England.”
America splashes water at him, hating being the third wheel. He gets a time out for that, but he doesn’t care. England is looking at him again, the way it should always be, and he sticks his tongue out at Canada when the empire isn’t looking. Canada looks down at his feet, and America feels better.
Goodbye, Brother [9/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:43:05 UTC
As if America would let Canada take England’s love away from him. Ha! France should just come and take his province back with him, otherwise America would do something really mean to the Northern nation. Besides, England was bound to get bored of Canada soon, he was France’s territory, and there was nothing England hated more than the proclaimed nation of love. America didn’t like him either; he was the one who gave England all those injuries. Every time France came to visit him (on the off chance that America changed his mind on who he wanted as a big brother), America made sure to slam the door on his face.
That would teach the dirty pervert to manhandle England.
“Sweet dreams, my little ones.” England kisses both of them on the forehead when it’s time for bed, his nightshirt stark white against the darkness of the room once the wax candle is extinguished. “Sleep tight.”
America wants to sleep in the same bed with England, but he refrains from calling out to the empire when he closes the door. Canada is here, and America doesn’t want to share the experience with him. He’d much rather stay with the urge to sleep in England’s arms than share his colonizer with his new brother.
Stupid Canada. This is another thing he’s ruined for America.
“I hate you,” he says to the darkness, a heavy scowl on his face.
“I know,” comes Canada’s soft, near whisper response. America can’t see it, but he’s sure the taller colony is clutching his bear to his chest.
“Stay away from England.” America turns around and glares at what he presumes is Canada in the darkness. “He’s mine.”
“I’m not trying to steal England away from you, America,” Canada promises just as softly. He sounds dejected, and America feels a tad bit guilty for about a second before he scoffs loudly. “I have a big brother of my own you know.”
Inwardly thinking England is a much better big brother than France, America grouses, “You better not.”
Because if he did, America really would sock him in the face.
“W-where are you going?” Canada asks when America throws his side of the covers away, his feet dangling off the bed.
“Nowhere,” America answers, jumping off the divan. He takes his pillow with him. “Don’t follow me.”
The corridor is dark and ominous; America has half a mind to turn around and return to his room. The promise of England at the end of the corridor keeps him going though, and the moonlight peeking out through the window helps make the night look less scary.
The door to England’s room is slightly ajar. A servant girl, one with her dark hair in pigtails, is getting ready to close the door when her equally dark eyes land on America. She blinks, but says nothing when she sees the familiar blonde head and cerulean eyes of the young master of the house. Instead, she smiles a shaky smile and lets the young colony pass before going her way. America watches her go, briefly wondering what she was doing in England’s room so late at night. Shaking his head, America peeks his head into the room and his eyes immediately land on the canopy bed. Arthur is reading a book by candle light, his emerald green eyes focused on the old, dusty pages instead of the little colony silently making his way to the divan.
Goodbye, Brother [10/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:48:01 UTC
Holding his pillow to his chest, America shuffles his feet nervously. “England, can I sleep together with you?” he asks shyly, not looking at his colonizer in the eye.
England puts his book down at the sound of America’s voice. He blinks in surprise at seeing America in his room, not having expected to see the boy after tucking him in. He smiles nonetheless, and pats the space next to him. “I guess it can’t be helped. Come here, love.”
America doesn’t need to be told twice; he crawls into the bed, dragging his pillow along with him. England sweeps him into the warmth of his arms, and smiles at him, and that makes America happy, but not as much as when England tucks his chin on his shoulder and whispers, “I’ve missed you, my dear boy.”
America missed England much, much more, but he says nothing. England gets a sad look on his face whenever America complains too much about how much the empire leaves him alone, and America doesn’t like seeing England sad. He’ll leave that for later. It’s an unbecoming action at his age, but America knows that once it’s time for England to leave, he’ll cling to the edges of his colonizer’s clothes and cry and beg him to say, even though he knows it’s pointless.
“I’ve been visiting you a lot less lately, haven’t I?” England muses, with that vulnerable, sad smile that America associates with England feeling guilt. “You must think me a horrible parental figure. Every time I come back, you’ve grown up so much since the last time I saw you. I feel like one day something very important is going to happen and I won’t be here to witness it.”
“Don’t be sad, England,” America murmurs, on the verge of tears himself. “I don’t like it when you’re sad.”
England takes his hand, kissing the knuckles chastely. He attempts a happier smile. “Sorry, moppet. This old man is just a bit tired from the voyage here. The king was reluctant to let me come, so I can’t stay for long this time either.”
America frowns, thoroughly disappointed despite himself. “Do you always have to do what the king says?”
Closing his eyes with a tired sigh, England pats his colony’s head. “The king is someone very dear to me, love. You’ll understand when you’re older what it means to be a country, and all the responsibilities that come with it.”
“Do you love the king more than you love me?”
Opening his eyes, England’s hand retreats. His smile disappears, and his body seems to get colder. America bites his lower lip, afraid he’s said something wrong.
“America,” the empire says softly, his voice subdued, almost wistful. “America, you must understand. We are not like people, dear. We do not have the freedom to give ourselves entirely to someone else. Our duty, our bodies, everything we are belongs to our people. They are us, and we are them. They must always come first.”
America doesn’t understand, and it must show on his face because England draws him close to his chest, as if to comfort him. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, my sweet boy. If there is one thing we as countries can give away freely, it is our feelings. I will always love you, dearest America.”
“But that doesn’t mean you get to be selfish,” England goes on, running his fingers through America’s hair. “You will always have my love, poppet. But don’t ever ask everything of me, for I cannot give it to you.”
Goodbye, Brother [11/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:52:58 UTC
“Because I’m your colony?” America can’t help but ask, little hands fisting England’s nightshirt. The tears are threatening to fall at any moment now.
England nods slowly, almost like he doesn’t want to but can’t really bring himself to lie. “Yes. In a way, that does play a role in the matter. I can never be yours the same way you are mine, but I do love you so very much, America. Never forget or doubt my feelings for you.”
“If…if you can’t be mine, then can you at least never love anyone more than you love me?” America bites his lower lip nervously, fidgeting with his hands. “Um. Besides the Mother Country that is,” he adds hastily, cheeks flushed a bright pink.
England blinks, surprised. Then he laughs, the smile America loves so much lighting up his face. “You stubborn, stubborn boy. Fine.” Another chuckle, another smile, and America’s cheeks grow warmer at the sound of England’s laughter. “I promise. You’ll be my number one, and no one will ever take your place. Happy?”
America is. He is immensely happy. He laughs along with England when the empire sweeps him up his arms again, kissing both his cheeks before ordering him to go to bed. America does without protest, happy to go to sleep encased in England’s warmth.
He’s lulled to sleep by the sound of England’s heartbeat. America makes the most of being in England’s arms, fully aware that he would have to make do without everything that was England for a long time once the busy empire left for the motherland.
But it was okay, because England always came back to America. He always did, and he always would.
- -
- -
Years pass, and America grows taller.
And as his body grows, so does his mind.
He goes outside more, always careful to keep his strength at bay lest he be accused of being a demon. It has happen before, when one of his nannies accidentally saw him carrying his wounded horse to the stables. America does not know what happened to her; England said he would take care of it, and America never saw the old nanny again. It was the first time he’d seen England look so serious, but when he promised America that everything would be okay and to not worry, America had simply shrugged his shoulders and gone off to play outside.
Outside; it’s a new world to him, the bustling towns and lively villagers. The house England purchased for him is big and mostly isolated, far from the civilizations of the towns. The servants are few and silent, and every five years or so, England replaces them with a new bunch. As to how he replaces them, America does not know. He never sees them again though, and he never asks England about them either.
The friends he’s made are a new breath of fresh air. He’s learned more from them than he’s ever learned from his many tutors. In fact, he often skips his lessons to go to the prairie with them, or to the stables. They share secrets and jokes and stories; the thrilling adventures they have together make for great memories as well.
“It’s because Engwand always leaves me!” America cries accusingly, glaring sulkily at the green-eyed nation, whose eyes widened in surprise at the sudden tantrum. “He always leaves me all alone!”
America can’t help but rise against the accusation, hurt by England’s words. If England had stayed with him, he would’ve been able to see how much America had grown in the years he’d been away. He’d grown at least two inches since England left for the motherland, and he’d finally learned how to write his name in cursive too. He’d learned a lot of new things and made lots of new friends from the nearby town. He’d even started going to the town by himself, no long scared of the villagers because England had taught that him that they were all his people.
He continues to sulk stubbornly, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes when England draws him into a hug. America loves England’s hugs as much as he loves his smiles, so when England neatly tucks him in his arms, he snuggles into the bigger nation’s chest despite that he is still angry.
“My sweet, beautiful America,” England sighs, and there is sadness in his voice as well as a tired smile. “My darling, golden boy, you know I can’t always stay with you.”
“You could,” America whispers, too headstrong to be the first one to give in. “If you really loved me, you would stay with me forever.”
“If I could I would,” England states, and America can feel no dishonesty from him. “I am most fond of you, America, you know this.”
“Liar,” America is quick to deny, even though he knows England does care for him; but he hates being left alone and he can’t help but wish England would stay with him more. “You have that what’s-his-name up in the North.” He sniffles, eyelashes wet with his tears. “You like him more than you like me.” And America hates that. He hates that because England shouldn’t love anyone more than he loves America.
England blinks, momentarily confused. Realization dawns on him quickly, and he smiles, a light chuckle seeping past his lips. “Don’t be mean to your brother, America. You haven’t even met the boy yet.”
“Engwand is my only brother.” America frowns, lips pursued stubbornly. “And I’m your favorite, right? You love me more than that what’s-his-name and all your other colonies, right?” What did India have to offer England? Or the Bahamans, or even Jamaica? America could offer England much more then all of them put together. Who cared if Barbados’s sugar plantations played a big key in making England’s precious tea? America was much more cuter and sweeter than sugar.
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“But yes, I do admit I have a bit of soft spot for you,” England concludes, a soft dust of pink on his cheeks. He coughs, not looking America in the eye any longer. America blinks at the new development, his tears traded in exchange for attentive fascination; he’s never seen England act so unlike himself before. It’s…
…enchanting. Yes, that’s the word. (Won’t his stuffy old tutor be proud of him for remembering such a big word. And he said America never paid attention, ha.)
“But that does not mean you can take special privileges with me, America.” England’s stern, no-funny-business face returns, and he is once again the same old England as before. America can’t help but feel disappointed. That had been a really cute face England had just made. “I expect you to grow up into a fine young man, which is why you should listen to your tutors while I am gone. No colony of mine will bring shame to the Mother Country.”
America would never do that. England is the Mother Country, which is why America would never do anything to shame the person most important to him. America is happiest when England is happiest; he would do almost anything to win one of England’s melting smiles.
He was doing his best to grow up as soon as possible so he could take care of England like England took care of him. America wasn’t blind to the injuries England sometimes came with when he came to visit him, and every one of them spurred America’s desire to grow up big and strong so he could protect England from anything and everything. Just like in the fairytales England read to him at night, America wanted to be England’s hero.
One day America would be a big, strong hero, and then he would be able to make sure no one ever hurt England again.
“I love you, Engwand,” he murmurs quietly, his arms locking around the his colonizer’s neck. He does not see England’s look of utter devotion, or the happy smile that blooms on his lips, or even the pink blush that takes over his cheeks at hearing America’s words. “I love you.”
“I love you too, America.” Drawing him closer, England places a chaste kiss on his forehead, his lips warm to the touch. “You’re my precious little boy after all. My golden, beautiful baby boy.”
America smiles at that, enormously happy. He snuggles against England’s chest, feeling triumphant and proud. “So I’m the favorite, right?”
The favorite. Of course America is the favorite. He will always be number one in England’s heart, America would make sure of that.
And if someone else came along, well, America would just have to get rid of the competition.
It was as simple as that.
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Random!Anon here to say that the cute, brotherly years are done with; up next, the start of puberty~
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Can't wait for the next update!
ReCaptcha: company held dawwwwwwwwwwws!
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Ah, can't wait for the next update.
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Aw, and the sweetness ♥ Little America has acquired a taste for embarassed blushing England, hehe. And England, you really can't defend yourself against all that cute together, can you?
I liked the detail about the salves, by the way ;)
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I love baby!America but.. I hate to think that they would have a father-son relationship when they fall in love *makes me a little sick* and the scenes you're writing are perfect. So much love and care but none of that horrible, pedophilic wrongness. You're able to capture exactly what I love about little Alfred ^^
[i]He was doing his best to grow up as soon as possible so he could take care of England like England took care of him. America wasn’t blind to the injuries England sometimes came with when he came to visit him, and every one of them spurred America’s desire to grow up big and strong so he could protect England from anything and everything. Just like in the fairytales England read to him at night, America wanted to be England’s hero.[/i]
This is /just/ what Alfred should be like. Oh, I cannot wait for Alfie's puberty and... how he starts to realise that he likes England..differently :'D
Lovely job Author!anon. Keep it up!
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FFFF that's exactly why, despite liking USxUK like crazy, I shy away from writing it xD In my head, I can't help but think of them as being *real* brothers which in turn equals incest, orz orz. Anywho, the "brotherly years" had to be written for the sake of my soul, as I could not bring myself to write straight out smut without giving this fill some semblance of plot lolol.
Expect the start of puberty chapters tonight, as I am still in university so, cannot write right now :DDD
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But... this doesn't make me love it any less xD Seriously though... you just continue with it and I know you'll make it good. And.. don't worry they're not 'real' brothers so.. it's not incest, everything is fine and well for our conscience XD Also... the plot is necessary! It just wouldn't be the same without it...and dear lord, you're gonna have some big dentist bills to pay xD
....Was going to go to sleep soon *it's 2:35 already* but.... since puberty chapters start tonight I may stay a little longer xDD
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Every time one of the nannies in charge of taking care of him comes to get him, whether he’s outside playing with the town’s children or in the library with his stuffy tutor, America barricades himself in the nearest shelter and refuses to come out and face the enemy.
He goes to ridiculous lengths to avoid taking his baths, going so far as to camp out in the forest with his animal friends for days. He sends the maids and butlers into a frenzy whenever he pulls one of his stunts, and at the end of the day when he is finally caught, he is reprimanded for his behavior.
America takes the scolding with a stubborn tilt of his chin and a childish pout on his lip, his arms crossed over his chest. He refuses to show weakness to the enemy-and they are the enemy, because they’re the ones who, every night without fail, force him to get in the tub and scrub the grime and dirt off him until he’s left as a fresh as a baby’s bottom.
America has never been fond of taking baths; he’d much rather play and have fun all day. After all, what was the point of playing in the mud if you were just going to get clean hours later? America doesn’t understand why he couldn’t just not take a bath. It was stupid.
“Master Kirkland will be very unhappy if he shows up and you greet him looking like this,” his old nursemaid huffs, clicking her tongue in disapproval when her eyes set on the grass stains on America’s clothes. It had been raining for the past couple of days, and the mud on the boy’s clothes was proof he’d skipped his lessons to play outside.
At this, America draws to attention. “Arthur? Arthur is coming?” The excitement in his voice is palpable, as is the blindingly delighted smile on his cherubic face.
The old nursemaid softens at the sight. She’d meant to keep the news to herself for a little longer, if only to punish the boy for skipping his lessons, but that smile always won her over. It was no wonder the Master could never say no to his young charge. “Yes, Master Kirkland sent word he would be coming for a visit. He’ll be arriving by ship any day now.”
It had been years since England last visited America; in fact, the last time England visited him had been when America faked being ill. (He’d gotten a stern scolding for that, but America hadn’t cared; England had stayed for two more weeks after all, and that’s what mattered.)
America is excited to show him how much he’s grown, positive England would be proud of his quick expansion. The day he learns England is coming, he asks his nannies to dress him in his best clothes, and he even goes through the painful, not to be mention annoying, hassle of taking a bath. But if it was for England, then America would do it.
Today was a great day, and nothing could possibly ruin it.
-Except that something does, and it comes in the shape of a boy who shares the same face as him.
“America, this is your brother Canada.”
America’s first instinct is to sock Canada in the face.
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It’s because England is holding his hand, smiling encouragingly at him. Because England is smiling at Canada like he does at a America, and America rips off one of his stuffed bunny’s ears with a harsh, tearing sound.
Looking down at his stuffed toy, America becomes even angrier when he sees it’s the stuffed animal England just recently brought him that he’s destroyed.
Stupid Canada.
Canada hides behind England’s legs, peering shyly at a America. “H-hello,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m Canada.”
There’s a bear clutched to his chest, and America thinks its stupid looking. Actually, everything about Canada is stupid looking, not just his bear. Never mind that their faces look eerily similar, America is obviously the cutest of the two.
England doesn’t seem to think so though; he dotes on Canada like he dotes on America, he hugs and carries them both, and he even lets Canada crawl on his lap when it’s story time. America has half a mind to kick the other province off, but he has a nagging feeling England would get mad at him and cancel story time altogether. So he refrains, but grudgingly and just barely.
When England leaves them alone to make tea and scones, America jumps off his seat and stares his nose down at Canada. He crosses his arms, taking in the competition.
“He’s mine, so don’t get close to him,” he warns the other child, mutilated bunny at his side.
“Eh?” Canada blinks, and squeaks when cerulean eyes glare at him.
“England,” America says, pronouncing each letter slowly. “He’s my big brother, and you can’t have him.”
Canada looks confused, and just when America is about to raise the ruined bunny and bring it down on the other province’s head, England walks in with tea and scones. Glaring at Canada one last time, America pivots and run to catch England around his waist with a giant smile on his face, the picture of innocence. “England, England!” he giggles, holding his arms up. “Up?”
England picks him up with one arm, carrying the tray with the other one. He sets the tray down on the table, and pushes it closer to Canada. “Help yourself, love,” he offers, smiling warmly at the young province.
Riding on England’s arm, America glares icily at Canada. The message is clear: Don’t. You. Dare. England’s horrible cooking was for America’s taste buds only. If someone was going to get a stomachache and be sick all over the expensive rug, it was going to be America.
Canada wilts under America’s glare, and he quickly shakes his head. His voice trembles. “N-no thank you, England.”
England frowns, about to push the matter but America quickly draws the empire’s attention back to him. He’s not about to let Canada hog England all to himself. America was here first, and therefore it made sense that he should get to call first dibs.
By the time the sun sets, America has managed to overshadow Canada in absolutely everything, and he’s mighty proud of himself. This would show the Northern nation not to barge into his perfectly happy life with England.
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“But I don’t want to take a bath, England!” America cries, latching onto the older nation’s middle.
England winces at the force his charge’s little hands are holding onto him, the colony‘s angelic baby face and preteen body belying his true strength. Nonetheless, he smiles down at the boy and musses his hair. “Then you shouldn’t have played in the mud in the first place, my sweet.”
America shakes his head back and forth furiously, tears pooling in his baby blues. His bottom lip quivers, and England feels his resolve weakening. He coughs, composing himself. “America, poppet, it won’t kill you to take a bath. Did I not raise you to be a gentleman? A gentleman does not sleep in his own filth.”
“I like sleeping in my own filth,” America grumbles, careful not to bruise England with his grip. “Sleeping in my own filth is fun.”
England clicks his tongue in dissatisfaction, and America takes a second to observe how the empire furrows his brow, the way his gloved fingers drum against his hips, and the way his green eyes narrow slightly only to soften seconds later. England‘s expressions have always been so fascinating to America. “Perhaps you wish to take a bath with Canada? That way you will get to know each other better.”
“No!” America shakes his head, pouting. “I want to take a bath with England!”
England runs a hand through his hair, a thoughtful look coming to his face. “How about we all take a bath together, hmm? Canada is a bit shy, but he’s a good boy, dearest.”
America whines in distress, stomping his feet. “England!”
In the end, despite America’s many protests, he finds himself in the tub, with England and Canada at his side. America is in such a bad mood that he can’t even properly enjoy England’s company. He blames this on Canada too, for ruining his alone time with England.
He hates having another brother. Why couldn’t it just be England and him forever? America has never been any good at sharing.
“You’ll come visit again, won’t you, dear Canada?” England is in such a good mood. His smile is so wide America fears it might split his face in two. “I won’t always be here of course, but you can come play with our America. It can’t be all that healthy for you to spend so much time with that French idiot.”
Canada fights off a smile at the empire’s comment on his current guardian. He ducks his head shyly. “Yes. I’d like that very much, England.”
America splashes water at him, hating being the third wheel. He gets a time out for that, but he doesn’t care. England is looking at him again, the way it should always be, and he sticks his tongue out at Canada when the empire isn’t looking. Canada looks down at his feet, and America feels better.
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That would teach the dirty pervert to manhandle England.
“Sweet dreams, my little ones.” England kisses both of them on the forehead when it’s time for bed, his nightshirt stark white against the darkness of the room once the wax candle is extinguished. “Sleep tight.”
America wants to sleep in the same bed with England, but he refrains from calling out to the empire when he closes the door. Canada is here, and America doesn’t want to share the experience with him. He’d much rather stay with the urge to sleep in England’s arms than share his colonizer with his new brother.
Stupid Canada. This is another thing he’s ruined for America.
“I hate you,” he says to the darkness, a heavy scowl on his face.
“I know,” comes Canada’s soft, near whisper response. America can’t see it, but he’s sure the taller colony is clutching his bear to his chest.
“Stay away from England.” America turns around and glares at what he presumes is Canada in the darkness. “He’s mine.”
“I’m not trying to steal England away from you, America,” Canada promises just as softly. He sounds dejected, and America feels a tad bit guilty for about a second before he scoffs loudly. “I have a big brother of my own you know.”
Inwardly thinking England is a much better big brother than France, America grouses, “You better not.”
Because if he did, America really would sock him in the face.
“W-where are you going?” Canada asks when America throws his side of the covers away, his feet dangling off the bed.
“Nowhere,” America answers, jumping off the divan. He takes his pillow with him. “Don’t follow me.”
The corridor is dark and ominous; America has half a mind to turn around and return to his room. The promise of England at the end of the corridor keeps him going though, and the moonlight peeking out through the window helps make the night look less scary.
The door to England’s room is slightly ajar. A servant girl, one with her dark hair in pigtails, is getting ready to close the door when her equally dark eyes land on America. She blinks, but says nothing when she sees the familiar blonde head and cerulean eyes of the young master of the house. Instead, she smiles a shaky smile and lets the young colony pass before going her way. America watches her go, briefly wondering what she was doing in England’s room so late at night. Shaking his head, America peeks his head into the room and his eyes immediately land on the canopy bed. Arthur is reading a book by candle light, his emerald green eyes focused on the old, dusty pages instead of the little colony silently making his way to the divan.
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England puts his book down at the sound of America’s voice. He blinks in surprise at seeing America in his room, not having expected to see the boy after tucking him in. He smiles nonetheless, and pats the space next to him. “I guess it can’t be helped. Come here, love.”
America doesn’t need to be told twice; he crawls into the bed, dragging his pillow along with him. England sweeps him into the warmth of his arms, and smiles at him, and that makes America happy, but not as much as when England tucks his chin on his shoulder and whispers, “I’ve missed you, my dear boy.”
America missed England much, much more, but he says nothing. England gets a sad look on his face whenever America complains too much about how much the empire leaves him alone, and America doesn’t like seeing England sad. He’ll leave that for later. It’s an unbecoming action at his age, but America knows that once it’s time for England to leave, he’ll cling to the edges of his colonizer’s clothes and cry and beg him to say, even though he knows it’s pointless.
“I’ve been visiting you a lot less lately, haven’t I?” England muses, with that vulnerable, sad smile that America associates with England feeling guilt. “You must think me a horrible parental figure. Every time I come back, you’ve grown up so much since the last time I saw you. I feel like one day something very important is going to happen and I won’t be here to witness it.”
“Don’t be sad, England,” America murmurs, on the verge of tears himself. “I don’t like it when you’re sad.”
England takes his hand, kissing the knuckles chastely. He attempts a happier smile. “Sorry, moppet. This old man is just a bit tired from the voyage here. The king was reluctant to let me come, so I can’t stay for long this time either.”
America frowns, thoroughly disappointed despite himself. “Do you always have to do what the king says?”
Closing his eyes with a tired sigh, England pats his colony’s head. “The king is someone very dear to me, love. You’ll understand when you’re older what it means to be a country, and all the responsibilities that come with it.”
“Do you love the king more than you love me?”
Opening his eyes, England’s hand retreats. His smile disappears, and his body seems to get colder. America bites his lower lip, afraid he’s said something wrong.
“America,” the empire says softly, his voice subdued, almost wistful. “America, you must understand. We are not like people, dear. We do not have the freedom to give ourselves entirely to someone else. Our duty, our bodies, everything we are belongs to our people. They are us, and we are them. They must always come first.”
America doesn’t understand, and it must show on his face because England draws him close to his chest, as if to comfort him. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, my sweet boy. If there is one thing we as countries can give away freely, it is our feelings. I will always love you, dearest America.”
“But that doesn’t mean you get to be selfish,” England goes on, running his fingers through America’s hair. “You will always have my love, poppet. But don’t ever ask everything of me, for I cannot give it to you.”
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England nods slowly, almost like he doesn’t want to but can’t really bring himself to lie. “Yes. In a way, that does play a role in the matter. I can never be yours the same way you are mine, but I do love you so very much, America. Never forget or doubt my feelings for you.”
“If…if you can’t be mine, then can you at least never love anyone more than you love me?” America bites his lower lip nervously, fidgeting with his hands. “Um. Besides the Mother Country that is,” he adds hastily, cheeks flushed a bright pink.
England blinks, surprised. Then he laughs, the smile America loves so much lighting up his face. “You stubborn, stubborn boy. Fine.” Another chuckle, another smile, and America’s cheeks grow warmer at the sound of England’s laughter. “I promise. You’ll be my number one, and no one will ever take your place. Happy?”
America is. He is immensely happy. He laughs along with England when the empire sweeps him up his arms again, kissing both his cheeks before ordering him to go to bed. America does without protest, happy to go to sleep encased in England’s warmth.
He’s lulled to sleep by the sound of England’s heartbeat. America makes the most of being in England’s arms, fully aware that he would have to make do without everything that was England for a long time once the busy empire left for the motherland.
But it was okay, because England always came back to America. He always did, and he always would.
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Years pass, and America grows taller.
And as his body grows, so does his mind.
He goes outside more, always careful to keep his strength at bay lest he be accused of being a demon. It has happen before, when one of his nannies accidentally saw him carrying his wounded horse to the stables. America does not know what happened to her; England said he would take care of it, and America never saw the old nanny again. It was the first time he’d seen England look so serious, but when he promised America that everything would be okay and to not worry, America had simply shrugged his shoulders and gone off to play outside.
Outside; it’s a new world to him, the bustling towns and lively villagers. The house England purchased for him is big and mostly isolated, far from the civilizations of the towns. The servants are few and silent, and every five years or so, England replaces them with a new bunch. As to how he replaces them, America does not know. He never sees them again though, and he never asks England about them either.
The friends he’s made are a new breath of fresh air. He’s learned more from them than he’s ever learned from his many tutors. In fact, he often skips his lessons to go to the prairie with them, or to the stables. They share secrets and jokes and stories; the thrilling adventures they have together make for great memories as well.
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