Fill 1/?
anonymous
September 10 2011, 00:13:40 UTC
It started because of England’s stories.
He was always an enthusiastic story teller at bedtime, lulling America with fantastic imagery of grand civilizations. Stories of immense wars and brilliant inventions, stories of foreign food and famous people. Then he would plant a kiss to the boy’s forehead and leave the room, content in the knowledge that his charge would sleep easier.
America never questioned the tales England regaled to him because he always enjoyed them too much to care about insignificant details- such as what happened next. But as he began to age, an infant turning into an adolescent, his curiosity rose and he started to question England about his narratives.
“Where is Ancient Egypt now?” America asked, on more than one occasion. “Where is Ancient Greece? Are they taking a holiday?”
Every time America asked him such things, England would merely twitch and reply, “Yes. That’s exactly what they’re doing.”
A lie, slipping from his tongue with ease. He couldn’t lie about it forever.
“They’re deceased,” America said calmly on one particular night, pulling the blankets around his legs and staring down at his grazed knees. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”
“Who told you that?” England had demanded, shocked. He hadn’t wanted the boy to know about death, not just yet. “Who told you, America?”
“France did,” America replied. “France told me that they’re dead and that means they’re no longer like us. They’re no longer walking and they’re no longer breathing and they’re no longer talking.”
“When I next see France,” England said under his breath, getting to his feet, “I’m going to kill him...”
“Then France will be dead,” America sniffed, eyes widening as he stared up at his mentor.
“That was a figure of speech,” England said. “I’m not actually going to.”
“England?” America asked with a sniff, clutching onto the bed sheets tighter until his fingers appeared distorted from pressure. “Am I going to die, too?”
That was one question England really couldn’t answer.He’s an adult now but nothing has changed. Since his childhood, America has been scared of his own mortality.
Perhaps unusually, it’s not the actual state of death that terrifies him. It’s not what lies beyond, either. He isn’t sure if he believes in any sort of deity and he thinks he prefers the idea of not having eternal life after death, because if God doesn’t have computer games in the afterlife then eternity would be an awfully long time to be bored.
The thing America is really terrified of, enough to break him out in a cold sweat like a caricature of a horror film character, is the idea of being forgotten.
It’s true that there is some selfish motivation behind it, but in all honesty, what person ever wants to be forgotten? Erased from the history books, a cast-off as the world moves on and the planet continues to turn. It’s different for humans- Hippocrates, Cleopatra, Nero; forever remembered and forever discussed. Of course America wants that for himself.
But he’s also terrified of death for entirely noble reasons.
If America were to die, what would happen to his people? The citizens of his impressive nation, sometimes standing united and at other times squabbling like lunatics- America loves them all, and he can’t bear the thought of them disappearing forever. Whenever one dies (a stillborn child that never had a chance, an old man abandoned in a care home after years spent working hard to feed his family, a middle-aged woman who never had anyone tell her she was beautiful) America ignores it, because he can’t face it. He can’t handle bereavement.
There’s also the matter of America genuinely enjoying his life. He has his enemies but he has his friends too, and though he’s not constantly in the right (though he’d never ever admit to being wrong) he always has the best of intentions. Life is wonderful, life is blissful.
Fill 2/?
anonymous
September 10 2011, 00:15:07 UTC
“You know, I’d really like to kiss you.”
That’s how he and England had gotten together, a simple statement from British lips that led to America nodding and allowing him to. And it’s rare even now that England kisses America because he’s never been one for lavish public displays of affection, but he likes to hold America’s hand.
It’s become just another habit, and that’s why it’s not at all reassuring when they stand by the grave together, the body of an American World War Two veteran being lowered into the soil as the Reverend leads the mourners in antiphon.
“I’m sorry,” England whispers. “I know how this feels. I’ve lost so many of them...”
England’s words are of no comfort because America can barely hear England speaking, heartbeat thudding in his ears and drowning out all the noises that surround him. The crunch of fresh earth, the thud of a single rose falling against the coffin lid, the footsteps of grievers walking away as they struggle with their emotions.
The whole thing is filthy and the ceremony is decrepit. It doesn’t seem right, for the remains of a true hero to be concealed within the dirt as though he was nothing, buried like so many other passed souls before him. England’s palm is slightly damp because he’s been clinging to America’s hand for far too long; America snatches his hand away and wipes it against his trousers, ignoring the hurt look on England’s face.He leaves the funeral early and he tells himself it’s because he’s got quite a large amount of work to do. Documents to sign, letters to write; busy busy busy and he hates being kept on his toes. He keeps the lights in the house permanently on.
Weeks are strange things. Seven days in a perfect row, a loop of names that endlessly repeats, year after year after year. Working and toiling and trying to snatch some time to spend with England.
Maybe work is stressing him out; he can hardly concentrate on what he’s meant to be attempting anymore, projects falling into neglect as his motivation and inspiration dries up completely. If he pushes himself too far he’ll get sick and he doesn’t want that to happen.
Every day, someone, somewhere, in the United States passes away. Multiple people do. Now more than ever, America feels them all die.England smiles as he walks into America’s house, a basket of something in one hand and his other shoved into his jacket pocket. “Good to see you again.”
America grins and seizes England’s arm, dragging him into the kitchen and taking the basket from his grip. “What’s this?”
“It’s champagne,” England winks, sitting down at the table. “Thought it would be nice to drink it with dinner...”
Eagerly seizing the bottle, America bounces on his heels and sets it down on the counter. He pauses. And then without warning, his expression changes and his energy drains, turning to England to declare, “I’ve missed you.”
England blinks rapidly in confusion a few times before replying, “You visited me last week, lad. It’s not like we’ve been apart for that long.”
“I know,” America says, “but I still miss you when you’re not here.”
Demeanour softening, England smiles and waves his hand to beckon America over. “C’mere...”
“Why?” America asks, mock-suspicious as he walks to where England is seated anyway.
Once he’s has moved close enough, England reaches up to pull him down by his collar, assaulting him with feather-light kisses against his jaw and running a hand through his hair. “Don’t waste your time missing me; I’m not going anywhere.”
America laughs and lets England continue, taking in the smell of his hair and the warmth of his skin. But when England attempts to press his lips to America’s, America flinches and pulls away.
“Is something wrong?” England says, clearly concerned.
“No,” America says, standing up straight and looking away. “Just... Do you think I look ill?”
“Ill?” England repeats. “No, you don’t look ill at all. Do you feel sick?”
He stands up and tries to rest his hand on America’s forehead in an effort to feel his temperature, but America moves away before he can.
“I’m gonna go get the bottle opener,” America says, his voice quiet. “I left it in the dining room; I’ll be back in a minute...”
Fill 3/?
anonymous
September 10 2011, 00:16:23 UTC
The next morning is a bright one and birdsong fills the room- it’s irritating. America slips out of bed as quietly as possible so as not to wake England (fast asleep and smiling, the dear thing) and makes his way downstairs to fetch something to eat for breakfast. There is a mirror on the wall of the staircase and America catches his reflection briefly; he looks paler than usual, but he brushes it aside.
Stomach letting out a groan, he contemplates what to eat. He doesn’t really want to have last night’s leftovers because he knows he’ll have to heat them up in the microwave to make them even passably edible, and that would mean having to endure the loud ping of the oven once it’s done, a noise that always echoes through the house and might disturb England’s sleep.
Eventually he settles on cereal, but by the time he’s made that choice England has already woken, yawning as he stands in the doorway to the room. Bleary-eyed but still smiling.
He’s wearing America’s bathrobe but America (wisely) chooses not to point that out. Instead he merely waves, looking up from the fridge. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Shut up.” England yawns. “It’s too early for your silliness.”
America chuckles and walks over to greet him with a kiss, amused by the way England attempts to squirm away from the attention only to soon give up and laugh. And America laughs too, wondering why he ever bothered worrying about things before.
“Let’s go for a walk someplace,” America suggests, as England rests his head on the curve of America’s neck. “It should be fun.”
Before England can reply, the phone rings. They break apart and America moves to answer it, reaching out to clutch the device and pin it to his ear in a single swift movement.
“Hello? Yeah, that’s me. What’s up?”
England watches as the conversation unfolds, curious as to who could be calling at such an hour. America’s expression is one of extreme concentration.
“Oh God.”
Then he loses his grip on the phone and it crashes to the floor.Here they are again, he supposes, another grave to stand next to in just under a month. America feels sick and his throat is dry but he can’t swallow, unable to speak so he allows various politicians to do the talking for him.
Statements to the media are easy; clichéd garbage passed off as fond, sentimental tributes to a man that half the nation supported and half the nation detested. The hard part is looking into the eyes of the deceased President’s seven year old son and being unable to offer any kind of sanctuary at all.
For the funeral ceremony, England is there with his Prime Minister and he’s kept apart from America; they don’t speak to each other before the service and they sit apart during. All the while America’s eyes are glued to the casket, wondering if he’s going to receive a funeral like this one someday or end up alone and disregarded in the place he finally falls.
Countries don’t age like humans and they don’t die like them either, but they do die. Prussia’s going to die someday and Rome hasn’t been seen by anyone for two years now. Ancient Egypt and Greece vanished almost immediately.
People are crying as the organ plays in the background and America realises he’s crying too, but not because of misery. He’s crying because of fear. Cold, hard fear that he can’t shake off and can’t defeat, hands shaking as his fingers grip his knees, brow furrowed and dread seeping into the scars that line his body. War, destruction, chaos; the things that threaten countries every single day, etched into his skin and dragging him slowly to the grave. He’s terrified.
He doesn’t care that people are staring at him when he stands up halfway through a hymn and runs from the Church.
Fill 4/?
anonymous
September 10 2011, 00:21:46 UTC
“Silly boy,” England says, when he finds America huddled in the Reverend’s wardrobe. “You’re not meant to be here. That poor clergyman has to store his clothes here, you know, and I’m quite sure this counts as trespassing."
America’s sniffling and he’s wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve, the smart black fabric damp from the continuous flow of tears.
“Aren’t you going to get out of there, then?” England asks, holding open the door just a tad wider. “We’ll miss the burial; they’ve all just moved outside.”
“I don’t wanna go,” America says, looking down at his knees. “Leave me alone.”
The light from the room outside is limited in regards to its reach within the wardrobe, but even though America’s face shrouded in shadow England can see he’s clearly upset.
“Alright then,” England sighs, stooping down.
He steps into the closet and crouches down at the opposite end of it. There’s not much room at all between them and their knees knock together, legs pulled up to their chests as they sit, parallel. Once he’s settled, England reaches up and pulls the wardrobe doors shut, covering them in total darkness.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting. Closing the doors.”
“Well, yeah, duh. But why? You should be at the burial. Your boss’ll go nuts.”
England’s hand reaches over and seizes America’s with a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t care what he says.”
America doesn’t speak, but he squeezes back.
“What’s the matter?” England asks, with the parental tone America remembers fondly but hates having to hear in the present. “Why're you crying?”
“Hey, England,” America says, voice shaking along with his hands. “England, I can’t attend the burial. I don’t want to die.”
England snorts with laughter. “Death isn’t contagious. Simply attending a funeral doesn’t make demise spread, you know.”
“I don’t mean I’m worried about something like that happening,” America says, embarrassed. “I just hate being at these things because they just remind me that I’m gonna end up like that someday. And now I can’t sleep and I’m getting sick and I’m probably dying anyway...”
“You’re not sick,” England insists. “I highly doubt you’re going to die- I’m not lucky enough for something like that to happen.”
He’s joking and it’s terrible but America laughs anyway.
“Don’t waste your time thinking about death,” England continues, “because there’s no point. I’ve been around for centuries, look at me- if I can survive this long, so can you.”
America smiles. “I really, really love you, England.”
In the darkness America can’t see it but England flinches at the comment, stating, “Perhaps the interior of a wardrobe is not the best place to have this conversation.”
“Actually, I think it’s the perfect place,” America replies, circling his thumb against England’s palm. “I don’t want to die because I don’t want to lose you.”
“If you die, there’s a high chance I’ll die too because I’ll be dragged into whatever war it is that finally finishes you off,” England grumbles. “So we’ll probably be stuck together for eternity.”
“So you think there’s an afterlife?” America questions, his interest won.
“I’m not sure,” England says, truthfully. “It’s a difficult enough question for humans to struggle with. For countries, who the hell knows what lies beyond? We might end up just going down someday during Armageddon and turning into oblivion, but that’s alright.”
Fill 4b/?
anonymous
September 10 2011, 00:24:12 UTC
America frowns and he wishes he could see England’s face. “You’re not scared?”
“Heavens, no,” England says. “Why would I be scared? If I expire, I expire- it’s out of my control. My existence has been good. I can’t complain.” He laughs. “Actually, that’s a lie. I can complain; I like complaining. But I’m proud of everything I’ve done. I’ve no regrets.”
"None at all?"
"A few. But I can't change the past, and neither can you. We can, however, change the future, so if you stop worrying about it you can use your time to set about making it better, can't you?"
Tears prick at the back of America’s eyelids and he doesn’t want to let them loose, tilting his head upwards to try and stem the flow. “How can you be so casual about this stuff?”
“I’m not casual about it at all,” England says. “I’m just old enough now to have come to terms with it all. I’ve seen people I love wither and I’ve seen people I hate prosper; the planet keeps turning and there’s nothing we can do except move on.”
America topples forward and nestles his head against England’s shoulder. At the contact, England’s heart beats just a little bit faster and, truth be told, America finds the sound comforting. He listens to the steady pump of blood through England’s body and savours it because it’s another glorious sign of life.
England sighs into America's hair. “Let’s get out of this wardrobe and go home; it’s very uncomfortable...”
Re: Fill 4b/?
anonymous
September 11 2011, 20:43:04 UTC
Author anon, you're so talented. You managed to write the fill according to the request so well, and still add a flavour to it of your own style.
To me, surprisingly, what I love about it is not how it centres around America's fear of death - which is a very humane fear of death, actually, the fear of being forgotten; nations tend to be written in history books, while not all humans get remembered the way celebrities or important figures are remembered. *cough* I'm digressing. So yes, what I love the most about this fill is America's interactions with England, the casual things that show how much they love each other: the way America notices England's smile, the way America thinks about not wanting to wake England up, then shook his head at himself for taking it so seriously, for the words he'd said to England (I've missed you, I really, really love you).
And England! I like how he's his grumpy self, and uncomfortable with blatant displays of love, but really affectionate to America. And how England isn't really affected by the hurt of America wiping his hand - things like that show their unwavering love to each other.
Re: Fill 4b/?
anonymous
September 11 2011, 21:18:44 UTC
(a!a) Gah, you'll kill me with flattery. But thank you! :)
nations tend to be written in history books, while not all humans get remembered the way celebrities or important figures are remembered
I do agree to an extent, but I have friends who know about people such as Hippocrates and Edward Jenner but they didn't know what Prussia was until they watched Hetalia, and they'd never heard of Silesia until the infamous vital regions line. Though America probably needn't worry about that happening to him, haha.
I'm glad you liked the portrayal of the relationship, too; I detest too much fluff but it's nice to work some in. <3
A!A, this was an absolutely beautiful fill. America's fear was so realistic and not overdone or unbelievable, pure perfection. I really did enjoy reading this very much. Thank you so much for taking the time to write this fill!
Re: Fill 4b/?
anonymous
September 19 2011, 02:40:03 UTC
This England, oh, this England! He's so wonderful and warm and comforting... so much what America needs. America's fear is handled in a very mature, elegant way; not OTP, not making fun of him.
You are doing an amazing job and I'm happy that you shared this with us.
The part about complaing, I can complain; I like complaining, made me laugh. Very IC.
He was always an enthusiastic story teller at bedtime, lulling America with fantastic imagery of grand civilizations. Stories of immense wars and brilliant inventions, stories of foreign food and famous people. Then he would plant a kiss to the boy’s forehead and leave the room, content in the knowledge that his charge would sleep easier.
America never questioned the tales England regaled to him because he always enjoyed them too much to care about insignificant details- such as what happened next. But as he began to age, an infant turning into an adolescent, his curiosity rose and he started to question England about his narratives.
“Where is Ancient Egypt now?” America asked, on more than one occasion. “Where is Ancient Greece? Are they taking a holiday?”
Every time America asked him such things, England would merely twitch and reply, “Yes. That’s exactly what they’re doing.”
A lie, slipping from his tongue with ease. He couldn’t lie about it forever.
“They’re deceased,” America said calmly on one particular night, pulling the blankets around his legs and staring down at his grazed knees. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”
“Who told you that?” England had demanded, shocked. He hadn’t wanted the boy to know about death, not just yet. “Who told you, America?”
“France did,” America replied. “France told me that they’re dead and that means they’re no longer like us. They’re no longer walking and they’re no longer breathing and they’re no longer talking.”
“When I next see France,” England said under his breath, getting to his feet, “I’m going to kill him...”
“Then France will be dead,” America sniffed, eyes widening as he stared up at his mentor.
“That was a figure of speech,” England said. “I’m not actually going to.”
“England?” America asked with a sniff, clutching onto the bed sheets tighter until his fingers appeared distorted from pressure. “Am I going to die, too?”
That was one question England really couldn’t answer.He’s an adult now but nothing has changed. Since his childhood, America has been scared of his own mortality.
Perhaps unusually, it’s not the actual state of death that terrifies him. It’s not what lies beyond, either. He isn’t sure if he believes in any sort of deity and he thinks he prefers the idea of not having eternal life after death, because if God doesn’t have computer games in the afterlife then eternity would be an awfully long time to be bored.
The thing America is really terrified of, enough to break him out in a cold sweat like a caricature of a horror film character, is the idea of being forgotten.
It’s true that there is some selfish motivation behind it, but in all honesty, what person ever wants to be forgotten? Erased from the history books, a cast-off as the world moves on and the planet continues to turn. It’s different for humans- Hippocrates, Cleopatra, Nero; forever remembered and forever discussed. Of course America wants that for himself.
But he’s also terrified of death for entirely noble reasons.
If America were to die, what would happen to his people? The citizens of his impressive nation, sometimes standing united and at other times squabbling like lunatics- America loves them all, and he can’t bear the thought of them disappearing forever. Whenever one dies (a stillborn child that never had a chance, an old man abandoned in a care home after years spent working hard to feed his family, a middle-aged woman who never had anyone tell her she was beautiful) America ignores it, because he can’t face it. He can’t handle bereavement.
There’s also the matter of America genuinely enjoying his life. He has his enemies but he has his friends too, and though he’s not constantly in the right (though he’d never ever admit to being wrong) he always has the best of intentions. Life is wonderful, life is blissful.
Reply
That’s how he and England had gotten together, a simple statement from British lips that led to America nodding and allowing him to. And it’s rare even now that England kisses America because he’s never been one for lavish public displays of affection, but he likes to hold America’s hand.
It’s become just another habit, and that’s why it’s not at all reassuring when they stand by the grave together, the body of an American World War Two veteran being lowered into the soil as the Reverend leads the mourners in antiphon.
“I’m sorry,” England whispers. “I know how this feels. I’ve lost so many of them...”
England’s words are of no comfort because America can barely hear England speaking, heartbeat thudding in his ears and drowning out all the noises that surround him. The crunch of fresh earth, the thud of a single rose falling against the coffin lid, the footsteps of grievers walking away as they struggle with their emotions.
The whole thing is filthy and the ceremony is decrepit. It doesn’t seem right, for the remains of a true hero to be concealed within the dirt as though he was nothing, buried like so many other passed souls before him. England’s palm is slightly damp because he’s been clinging to America’s hand for far too long; America snatches his hand away and wipes it against his trousers, ignoring the hurt look on England’s face.He leaves the funeral early and he tells himself it’s because he’s got quite a large amount of work to do. Documents to sign, letters to write; busy busy busy and he hates being kept on his toes. He keeps the lights in the house permanently on.
Weeks are strange things. Seven days in a perfect row, a loop of names that endlessly repeats, year after year after year. Working and toiling and trying to snatch some time to spend with England.
Maybe work is stressing him out; he can hardly concentrate on what he’s meant to be attempting anymore, projects falling into neglect as his motivation and inspiration dries up completely. If he pushes himself too far he’ll get sick and he doesn’t want that to happen.
Every day, someone, somewhere, in the United States passes away. Multiple people do. Now more than ever, America feels them all die.England smiles as he walks into America’s house, a basket of something in one hand and his other shoved into his jacket pocket. “Good to see you again.”
America grins and seizes England’s arm, dragging him into the kitchen and taking the basket from his grip. “What’s this?”
“It’s champagne,” England winks, sitting down at the table. “Thought it would be nice to drink it with dinner...”
Eagerly seizing the bottle, America bounces on his heels and sets it down on the counter. He pauses. And then without warning, his expression changes and his energy drains, turning to England to declare, “I’ve missed you.”
England blinks rapidly in confusion a few times before replying, “You visited me last week, lad. It’s not like we’ve been apart for that long.”
“I know,” America says, “but I still miss you when you’re not here.”
Demeanour softening, England smiles and waves his hand to beckon America over. “C’mere...”
“Why?” America asks, mock-suspicious as he walks to where England is seated anyway.
Once he’s has moved close enough, England reaches up to pull him down by his collar, assaulting him with feather-light kisses against his jaw and running a hand through his hair. “Don’t waste your time missing me; I’m not going anywhere.”
America laughs and lets England continue, taking in the smell of his hair and the warmth of his skin. But when England attempts to press his lips to America’s, America flinches and pulls away.
“Is something wrong?” England says, clearly concerned.
“No,” America says, standing up straight and looking away. “Just... Do you think I look ill?”
“Ill?” England repeats. “No, you don’t look ill at all. Do you feel sick?”
He stands up and tries to rest his hand on America’s forehead in an effort to feel his temperature, but America moves away before he can.
“I’m gonna go get the bottle opener,” America says, his voice quiet. “I left it in the dining room; I’ll be back in a minute...”
Re-taking his seat, England doesn’t reply.
Reply
Stomach letting out a groan, he contemplates what to eat. He doesn’t really want to have last night’s leftovers because he knows he’ll have to heat them up in the microwave to make them even passably edible, and that would mean having to endure the loud ping of the oven once it’s done, a noise that always echoes through the house and might disturb England’s sleep.
Eventually he settles on cereal, but by the time he’s made that choice England has already woken, yawning as he stands in the doorway to the room. Bleary-eyed but still smiling.
He’s wearing America’s bathrobe but America (wisely) chooses not to point that out. Instead he merely waves, looking up from the fridge. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Shut up.” England yawns. “It’s too early for your silliness.”
America chuckles and walks over to greet him with a kiss, amused by the way England attempts to squirm away from the attention only to soon give up and laugh. And America laughs too, wondering why he ever bothered worrying about things before.
“Let’s go for a walk someplace,” America suggests, as England rests his head on the curve of America’s neck. “It should be fun.”
Before England can reply, the phone rings. They break apart and America moves to answer it, reaching out to clutch the device and pin it to his ear in a single swift movement.
“Hello? Yeah, that’s me. What’s up?”
England watches as the conversation unfolds, curious as to who could be calling at such an hour. America’s expression is one of extreme concentration.
“Oh God.”
Then he loses his grip on the phone and it crashes to the floor.Here they are again, he supposes, another grave to stand next to in just under a month. America feels sick and his throat is dry but he can’t swallow, unable to speak so he allows various politicians to do the talking for him.
Statements to the media are easy; clichéd garbage passed off as fond, sentimental tributes to a man that half the nation supported and half the nation detested. The hard part is looking into the eyes of the deceased President’s seven year old son and being unable to offer any kind of sanctuary at all.
For the funeral ceremony, England is there with his Prime Minister and he’s kept apart from America; they don’t speak to each other before the service and they sit apart during. All the while America’s eyes are glued to the casket, wondering if he’s going to receive a funeral like this one someday or end up alone and disregarded in the place he finally falls.
Countries don’t age like humans and they don’t die like them either, but they do die. Prussia’s going to die someday and Rome hasn’t been seen by anyone for two years now. Ancient Egypt and Greece vanished almost immediately.
People are crying as the organ plays in the background and America realises he’s crying too, but not because of misery. He’s crying because of fear. Cold, hard fear that he can’t shake off and can’t defeat, hands shaking as his fingers grip his knees, brow furrowed and dread seeping into the scars that line his body. War, destruction, chaos; the things that threaten countries every single day, etched into his skin and dragging him slowly to the grave. He’s terrified.
He doesn’t care that people are staring at him when he stands up halfway through a hymn and runs from the Church.
Reply
America’s sniffling and he’s wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve, the smart black fabric damp from the continuous flow of tears.
“Aren’t you going to get out of there, then?” England asks, holding open the door just a tad wider. “We’ll miss the burial; they’ve all just moved outside.”
“I don’t wanna go,” America says, looking down at his knees. “Leave me alone.”
The light from the room outside is limited in regards to its reach within the wardrobe, but even though America’s face shrouded in shadow England can see he’s clearly upset.
“Alright then,” England sighs, stooping down.
He steps into the closet and crouches down at the opposite end of it. There’s not much room at all between them and their knees knock together, legs pulled up to their chests as they sit, parallel. Once he’s settled, England reaches up and pulls the wardrobe doors shut, covering them in total darkness.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting. Closing the doors.”
“Well, yeah, duh. But why? You should be at the burial. Your boss’ll go nuts.”
England’s hand reaches over and seizes America’s with a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t care what he says.”
America doesn’t speak, but he squeezes back.
“What’s the matter?” England asks, with the parental tone America remembers fondly but hates having to hear in the present. “Why're you crying?”
“Hey, England,” America says, voice shaking along with his hands. “England, I can’t attend the burial. I don’t want to die.”
England snorts with laughter. “Death isn’t contagious. Simply attending a funeral doesn’t make demise spread, you know.”
“I don’t mean I’m worried about something like that happening,” America says, embarrassed. “I just hate being at these things because they just remind me that I’m gonna end up like that someday. And now I can’t sleep and I’m getting sick and I’m probably dying anyway...”
“You’re not sick,” England insists. “I highly doubt you’re going to die- I’m not lucky enough for something like that to happen.”
He’s joking and it’s terrible but America laughs anyway.
“Don’t waste your time thinking about death,” England continues, “because there’s no point. I’ve been around for centuries, look at me- if I can survive this long, so can you.”
America smiles. “I really, really love you, England.”
In the darkness America can’t see it but England flinches at the comment, stating, “Perhaps the interior of a wardrobe is not the best place to have this conversation.”
“Actually, I think it’s the perfect place,” America replies, circling his thumb against England’s palm. “I don’t want to die because I don’t want to lose you.”
“If you die, there’s a high chance I’ll die too because I’ll be dragged into whatever war it is that finally finishes you off,” England grumbles. “So we’ll probably be stuck together for eternity.”
“So you think there’s an afterlife?” America questions, his interest won.
“I’m not sure,” England says, truthfully. “It’s a difficult enough question for humans to struggle with. For countries, who the hell knows what lies beyond? We might end up just going down someday during Armageddon and turning into oblivion, but that’s alright.”
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“Heavens, no,” England says. “Why would I be scared? If I expire, I expire- it’s out of my control. My existence has been good. I can’t complain.” He laughs. “Actually, that’s a lie. I can complain; I like complaining. But I’m proud of everything I’ve done. I’ve no regrets.”
"None at all?"
"A few. But I can't change the past, and neither can you. We can, however, change the future, so if you stop worrying about it you can use your time to set about making it better, can't you?"
Tears prick at the back of America’s eyelids and he doesn’t want to let them loose, tilting his head upwards to try and stem the flow. “How can you be so casual about this stuff?”
“I’m not casual about it at all,” England says. “I’m just old enough now to have come to terms with it all. I’ve seen people I love wither and I’ve seen people I hate prosper; the planet keeps turning and there’s nothing we can do except move on.”
America topples forward and nestles his head against England’s shoulder. At the contact, England’s heart beats just a little bit faster and, truth be told, America finds the sound comforting. He listens to the steady pump of blood through England’s body and savours it because it’s another glorious sign of life.
England sighs into America's hair. “Let’s get out of this wardrobe and go home; it’s very uncomfortable...”
Sniffing, America smiles.
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To me, surprisingly, what I love about it is not how it centres around America's fear of death - which is a very humane fear of death, actually, the fear of being forgotten; nations tend to be written in history books, while not all humans get remembered the way celebrities or important figures are remembered. *cough* I'm digressing. So yes, what I love the most about this fill is America's interactions with England, the casual things that show how much they love each other: the way America notices England's smile, the way America thinks about not wanting to wake England up, then shook his head at himself for taking it so seriously, for the words he'd said to England (I've missed you, I really, really love you).
And England! I like how he's his grumpy self, and uncomfortable with blatant displays of love, but really affectionate to America. And how England isn't really affected by the hurt of America wiping his hand - things like that show their unwavering love to each other.
I've enjoyed reading this very much!
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nations tend to be written in history books, while not all humans get remembered the way celebrities or important figures are remembered
I do agree to an extent, but I have friends who know about people such as Hippocrates and Edward Jenner but they didn't know what Prussia was until they watched Hetalia, and they'd never heard of Silesia until the infamous vital regions line. Though America probably needn't worry about that happening to him, haha.
I'm glad you liked the portrayal of the relationship, too; I detest too much fluff but it's nice to work some in. <3
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You are doing an amazing job and I'm happy that you shared this with us.
The part about complaing, I can complain; I like complaining, made me laugh. Very IC.
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