[Hetalia] Revolutionary Lines :: Chapter 2
Title: Revolutionary Lines
Author: masanami
Character(s): US x UK // UK x US
Word Count: 4,883
Rating: R
Genre: Drama
Timeline: American Revolution
Warnings: Graphic, angst, dark, explicit
Summary: England becomes aware of changes in young America, making him begin to see the growing colony in a different light and leading to events that will forever change their relationship.
Author's Note: I found this to be a very emotional chapter and getting the flow of the sentences without losing the feeling behind them was really difficult. I tried to go for a happy medium, but I still wasn't happy with it either way, so I'm just posting it as is--flaws and all. Enjoy! ;)
Light filtered through the curtains of the bedroom window, bathing the otherwise dark room in a dusky morning glow. England slowly awoke from the comforting dark of slumber, a groan slipping between his lips as he rolled onto his side and ducked his head underneath the pillow. He didn’t want to wake up, he wanted to sleep and remain lost within the abyss of slumber, but sleep would not welcome him with a warm embrace. Instead of being encircled by the oblivion of slumber, reality slowly began to come to light like the turning of a page, and the events of the previous night pushed through the haze of his early morning consciousness. He remembered spending the day with America, the party, the political discussions, and then…
England’s emerald eyes snapped open from underneath the pillow. Fingers trembling, he slowly pulled the pillow away from his face, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light of the room’s interior. His fingers clenched around the pillow within his grasp, as if he were hanging on for dear life, and in some respects he was, because the thing he saw truly terrified him to the very core of his soul. America lay on the other side of the bed, chest rising and falling in the deep breaths of slumber, only a measly amount of blanket covering his otherwise nude form. It was in that moment that England realized that he too lay nude and all the memories of the previous night came rushing back like a tidal wave; the sweat between two bare bodies, the moans of pleasure, the feel of America’s lips against his own, and even…the tears.
Gingerly England pushed himself up to a sitting position, careful not to disturb the bed. He leaned over and tried to look at America’s face but most of his view was obstructed by the man’s hair messily displaced about his face from sleep. In frustration, England carefully pushed aside the blankets and slipped out of the bed, his feet touching down on the cool wooden floor. He didn’t bother looking for any of his clothes because he clearly remembered discarding them somewhere in the entranceway. Instead he ventured into the bathroom where he found a robe and hastily put it on.
Freed from his nudity and no longer in fear of waking America by moving the bed, England walked over to the curtains and shut them tightly, trapping away the light for the time being. It was just dim enough to see once his eyes adjusted, and England made his way over to the side of the bed, leaning down to level his face with America’s own, which lay smashed against the mattress, the pillow careless tossed off to the side. He was breathing evenly, his face serene and tranquil in his rest.
Hesitantly, England reached out a hand and hovered it over the soft strands of golden hair. He almost touched them, but he didn’t, instead imagining how the soft strands would bend and give away with his fingers. He had touched that hair so many times in the past; playfully, teasingly, lovingly…he knew exactly how it was feel against his skin. So he held back, the fingers he still hovered over the young man’s head trembling until he moved them away and locked his fingers into a fist.
Oh, God, he felt such awful shame...
Watching his beloved America laying so peacefully after all the things he had subjected him to only hours ago. How could that face possibly remain so fragile and innocent when he awoke and remembered the awful things that England had done? How would he react?
England chewed on his bottom lip and forced away the fear that threatened to overtake him. He could do this, there had to be a way to make this right, there had to be a way to make America understand... but America was still a child, and an idiot, and he would never fully understand any explanation for his actions...
And it sent a hollow pang through England's gut as the first thing he thought about were lies. Anything to cover up the act, anything to deny what had happened. He didn't want to lie, but the weight of his shame was suffocating.
Like a flash of light the idea came to England and without a moment’s hesitation he resolved himself to it. He knew what had to be done and though he knew it would be difficult he knew that without a doubt it must be accomplished. Getting up from his kneeling position, England left behind the room and went to the guest room where he had been staying. He went to the bathroom first, washing his face in the basin and letting the soothing sound of falling water ease the tension in his body.
“I have to do it,” England told himself quietly as he prepared the bath, needing to rinse away the memories from hours ago. He buried his head in his hands, feeling the tears threaten to over take him even as he tried to resolve himself to his plan. “I have to do it,” he repeated, this time louder and with more conviction. Strings pulled at his heart but he ignored them.
He stripped off the robe and slipped into warm water, soaking his face. Grabbing a bar of soap, he began to scrub his skin until it was red and raw. He had to get the smell of America off of him, he had to rinse away every lingering emotion connected to this night, otherwise America would hate him forever.
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He didn't like the dark. There was never a time that he could remember when he found the dark to be comforting. Even in his teenage years he still imagined all the hidden horrors lurking within that black chasm, waiting patiently for him to let his guard down so that they could snatch him and drag him into that darkness. Being afraid of the dark always made sleeping hard for America. He scarcely remembered the times before England had come and taken him under his wing and protected him from that darkness, and throughout the years it had become a habitual ritual for him to crawl into the other's bed so that he didn't have to face the trepidation of his imagination alone. When England left him alone it was always hard, but America had learned to imagine that England was the pillowing that he clung to at night and he always remembered the words that England would whisper to him on those particularly bad nights.
"I love you."
Those words hurt. They hurt because he wanted to hear them, really hear them, but they never came. The night of the party, oh how America longed to hear those words. His body had been trembling with each article of clothing removed, with the way that England's hands masterfully moved over his body, with the moans of pleasure he couldn't deny. The movement of his fumbling and inexperienced fingers was embarrassing, but England never said anything. He didn't say anything at all. He moaned and would groan, and would rake his fingers through his hair until they painfully pulled at the roots, but he never uttered a single word. Not once it began, not once it ended, not even before he felt the older nation fall asleep beside him.
And that was what really hurt. It hurt because the whole entire time America just wanted to hear those three words, but England wouldn't utter them, he wouldn't even look at him. And that only made America more confused, less understanding, and feel so much more vulnerable. It didn't matter what kind of love England professed, but America just needed to know that he was loved and he was still cherished and his actions at the party weren't going to leave him tossed to the side...
Waking from the haze of sleep, America slowly opened his eyes. The light streaming in through a crack in the curtain fell right into his eyes and he groaned, turning away from the source and back into the darkness. He knew from the brightness of the light that the morning had passed and it was probably the early afternoon, and even though he must have been asleep for hours he still felt the groggy haze of slumber beckoning him to return. But sleep was impossible the moment he was awake and he knew that with absolute certainty.
He started to push himself up to his elbows but immediately regretted the action. It hurt, hurt so bad in fact that he was surprised at the shooting pain that ran down his body. Ugh, it was far from pleasant. “I didn’t think it would hurt so bad…” he mumbled to himself, grimacing as he tried to move again, this time more slowly. Moving slow helped, and when he was half way up he was able to see that he was alone.
“England…” he said softly, his blue eyes sad and cast down to the sheets that barely covered his nude form. He was afraid to think about it too much, about what everything meant and why England had acted like that. He had been so angry, angry at England for treating the colonists so poorly and for making a scene over nothing, but he never expected him to act in such a manner as that. “Why…?” He wondered aloud, but he knew that only one person could answer that question and he would have to ask him if he had any hopes of getting an answer. He wasn’t even sure how he felt, he was so confused he couldn’t even process the emotions. He loved England, that was something he had known ever since he was a newborn, but could he truly love England like this? He was scared, more so because he didn’t know how he felt, it was all a muddled mess in his mind.
Pushing aside the covers, America got out of bed and went to the bathroom. He was able to look into the mirror and saw one of the major sources of his pain: a huge bruise on his lower back that was purple and bloated. “Ouch,” he mumbled as he gingerly touched the area. It was from the door knob, being thrust up and pounded against it left a nasty reminder of the previous night’s events. Frowning, America readied the bath and got inside, trying to keep the images from the previous night out of his head until he was ready to deal them. He couldn't think about them, not clearly, not when his mind wasn't sharp and the doubtful questions of last night were still pounding against his head. It hurt to think about it, so he just wouldn't, not until he talked to England and not until after he got some answers.
It took a while before America was dressed and ready to head downstairs. The shower helped take away the edge of soreness, but mentally he wasn’t ready. He knew he couldn’t remain locked away nor could he pretend nothing happened, so he forced himself to head downstairs. As he walked down the hallway from the staircase his eyes drifted toward the front door. As he expected the clothes from the previous night were not around, but what did surprise America was the pile of luggage patiently waiting near the entranceway. He recognized it at once as England’s and it made his heart pound faster.
He hurried his step and headed toward the kitchen where he could faintly smell the whiff of England’s favorite tea. He was probably sitting right at the table waiting for him to wake up…but when America walked into the kitchen England was just rinsing out the kettle at the kitchen sink. He looked up for a moment whenever America came into the room, his eyes and face unreadable, before he went back to what he was doing.
America stood in the doorway, silently watching. The silence that stretched between them was heavy.
England took a deep breath, a long sigh heaving through his parted lips. “I was wondering when you were going to wake up.” England finally said. "Sleeping in all day isn't good for you."
“Are you going somewhere?” America asked slowly, unable to forget the bags that were waiting at the doorway.
“Yes,” England said as he wiped his wet hands off once he finished cleaning the kettle. He turned and looked at America, his gaze holding back any sliver of emotion. “I’m returning to the homeland. I trust that isn’t an issue?” he said, his tone almost rueful, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. America knew full well that England had planned on staying at least a week longer, so why was he going now? “I’ve already called for a carriage-“
“Does this have to do with last night? Is that why you’re leaving?” America asked bluntly. He found the courage to move closer. "Did I--" He began, but stopped himself short, unable to speak the words aloud. Did he do something wrong? He reached out his hands and put them on England’s shoulders, clenching his fingers around the man’s arms; desperate, scared, and hurt that he was running away like this. He didn’t even know what to think and the one person that could give him some peace of mind was just turning away and forgetting about the whole thing. But America knew he couldn’t forget, he couldn’t just wipe it away from his memory. He was so scared his entire body was trembling. He needed answers and if England left...who would give them to him?
England was unforgiving. “Let go,” he said sternly.
“But England, please, just listen a minute-“
“I don’t have any obligation to listen to someone acting so inappropriate.” Finally, America released his grip, his hands falling to his sides and eyes staring at the ground.
England folded his arms and looked down at the young colony. “The only thing you should take from last night is the belief that you are my property and mine alone, and I can do as I wish with my property.” He smoothed down the folds of his clothing. “You are nothing but a colony and a colony must do as the Empire commands. Don’t forget that or I will have to teach you once again what it means to be conquered.”
America bit his lower lip, trying to distract himself from the sudden clench in his chest. He looked at the ground, tears threatening the corners of his eyes and causing his voice to choke, but somehow he managed to hold them at bay despite the raw pain. “Is that all I ever meant to you? I’m just some colony?” He just couldn’t believe it. All this time, all the love they had shared between them, had it really meant nothing? And last night… America's fingers clenched into fists at his sides and he refused to believe it. England was lying, he had to be lying.
“Of course,” England stated. “What did you think you were? Family, a lover, a true brother?” He snorted in distaste. “You are a subordinate, America, and subordinates should not forget their place, lest they wish to bring punishment to themselves.” He cupped his fingers underneath America’s chin and forced the boy to look up at him. He paused for a moment, a little unsteady as he stared into those throbbing blue eyes.
“I hope you have learned your lesson, America.” He paused for a moment at the colony’s silence.
“Yes, sir.” America mumbled, subjected through the agony that was making his shoulders shudder. “I understand.” England's words left no room for questioning or doubt.
There was a knock on the door and England knew that his carriage had arrived. “I will be leaving now, I expect you will keep things in order here in the New World until my next return.” He said before walking past America, leaving the boy standing there in stunned silence.
America couldn’t will himself to move. He merely listened to England’s parting words, words that came out as more of a threat than a promised return. When he finally heard the open and close of the front door only then did America let himself sink to the ground and release all the tears that he had pushed away.
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England was grateful a ship was traveling to London that very afternoon.
He was ashamed, but the only thoughts that consumed his mind in the morning were ones of fleeing. He had broken the one thing he fostered feelings for, the one precious and delicate innocence that he always wanted to protect. Even if America wasn't angry, even if part of the boy thought that he understood, England knew it would only be a matter of time before the fine threads around the boy unraveled and he crumbled to pieces.
England knew he couldn't suffer the agony of watching that. It was better that he do it himself and do it fast.
His fingers gripped tightly onto the side of the carriage as he pulled himself inside and curtly ordered to the driver to take him to the port. He sat down heavily, forcing his emerald eyes to stare at the empty space in front of him, not allowing himself a chance to look back. He had to be strong, what he was doing was the right thing, the words had already been said, there was no turning back now. It was just too late.
“It’s for your own good, America.” He said softly, trying to reassure himself and his own actions. The hurt that he had seen in America’s eyes was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. This would hurt him, it would run deep, but England knew it was necessary to counter his own shameful acts.
As the carriage took him toward the port, England sat back and tightly closed his eyes. “But things will never be the same,” he said aloud. Of that, he was certain. With one night’s actions and several carefully spoken words, he destroyed every bond he had ever made with the one person he loved above all else.
England bit his lower lip, keeping the tears at bay. “I’m such a dolt,” he mumbled. He could never forget that this was all his fault. America would never return to that innocent child that he loved, and England was charged with shattering the last fragments of a reality that he had clung to so dearly. He had loved him so much; raising America as a little child, being his brother and his protector. But he hadn't handled his growth well; he lashed out at him, hurt him, and even claimed him. And now, as a consequence, he was going to have to hurt him even further. He was going to have to break every lasting--every beautifully precious memory--that the boy had with him.
He wanted America to hate him.
If America thought that the previous night meant nothing then he would eventually forget, he would move on with his life and he could be happy. But if he knew, if he knew the way that England felt--the disgusting thoughts that painted his subconscious--then he would scar the boy in a much worse way than he already had...
As he sat there within the carriage the only thing that England could do was think about the past and how it was never going to be the same again.
“England!” America said as he snuggled up against him, leaning his head against his chest and wrapping his arms around his stomach.
“What is it, America?” England asked sleepily. It was late and England was exhausted from chasing around the energetic child all day. He had hoped that he would finally get some rest but it seemed that America persisted in denying him sleep.
England smiled softly and felt his fingers running through the boy’s soft sandy-brown hair, watching the gentle rise and fall of each comfortable breath. The boy had refused to sleep in his own bed whenever England was visiting so he didn’t even try to argue, instead choosing to let this innocent pleasantry pass. He didn’t mind after all, sleeping next to the little body that loved to snuggle against his chest brought a calm like no other to the core of his being.
"Don’t go to sleep yet.” America said, sleepily but still awake enough to remind England that he wasn’t allowed to fall asleep first, as he was rather prone to do. He raised his chin and looked up at England with tired eyes. “You always fall asleep first.”
England smirked, nodding with heavy lidded eyes. He wanted to see that beautiful and innocent smile. “Why don’t I teach you how to use the rifle tomorrow? I think it’s high time you learnt.”
America smiled brightly. “Really? Seriously?” He was bouncing up in bed now, tossing aside the covers in his excitement. “I can’t wait! Let’s go right now!” In his excitement he completely forgot about the late hour and sleep.
“Not right now, it’s late.” England reminded him, laughing gently when he saw the disappointed expression. “Tomorrow will come soon enough. First thing in the morning I will show you, but you have to go to sleep right this minute.” That seemed to sedate the boy’s roaring excitement enough to get him back under the covers and laying against his chest. He still wrestled with his excitement, but it was contained for the moment.
“Thanks England,” the boy mumbled as he snuggled against his older brother. His blue eyes slowly began to close as his sleepiness began to take over. He was getting older but he was still such a child in spirit. England was grateful for that.
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There was the sound of footsteps, the door opening and closing, and then England was gone. America was alone, unable to move his gaze from the invisible spot on the wall, unable to acknowledge the silence that engulfed him. His entire body shuddered with tears and he leaned forward onto the cool wooden ground, banging his fist onto the floor, and sobbing so uncontrollably that his chest started to heave from the effort. It burned, it all burned so badly. He didn't know if it was the sting in his lungs, his eyes drowning in his tears, or the crumbling pieces of his heart--but something was piercing through his skin, engulfing his entire body with a pain he had never before experienced. Why did it hurt so much? Why did England...? But the thoughts were lost at the mere idea of England, and he had to banish them away because he could barely breath and his vision was hazy from the water in his eyes, and he swore he felt like he was really dying...
Why did it hurt so much?
Time passed slowly and he didn't know how long he remained like that. At some point in time, his body slumped forward and he lay on the ground, curling his body inward. He was thankful that the house was empty, that he didn't have any companions that lived with him, because he didn't want anyone to see him like this. He didn't want to be seen broken down, unable to even move from the floor.
Moving would make it too real, it would mean he would have to accept that this large house was empty and that the bags that had been waiting by the door were gone, and upstairs in his bedrooms the sheets were still...
They would still smell like England.
It took some time before America was finally able to stop the tears and drag himself off of the kitchen floor. He felt weak, drained, and had to grip the countertop so tightly that his fingers blotched white just so that he could stand. He stood there for a long time, just staring out into the nothingness, wanting to cry more but thinking that he had no more tears left to shed. He didn't even know if it would help, if there was anything that could help him now. He didn't know how to deal with this, he was too scared to deal with this.
When he heard England’s omission, he was sure that it was just a farce. He wanted to shake it off, believe that he had merely misunderstood the other nation, that this was all some horrible joke and that England never meant a word of it-but England had said those words with such force and conviction that, as much as he wanted to deny it, it left little doubt in America’s mind that he was indeed telling the truth.
He did it on purpose.
You're just a colony
England's words echoed in his head.
What did you think you were? Family, a lover, a true brother?
He had said those words purposefully. He said those words with the intention to hurt.
America wanted to mourn, but he couldn’t. He was caught between this desperate feeling of loneliness and death-because yes, it felt like a cold hollowed form had reached out his hand and grabbed that loving relationship that he had so cherished and wretched it away from him forever-
Was he delusional? He should have always of known that he wasn’t special, that England never really cared about him the way he thought he did, and it should have been obvious but he was too stupid to notice. But there were so many moments, so many cherished memories...
God, he was such an idiot.
And that was enough of a decision for his tears, and they came streaming down from his face with renewed vigor like a torrid flood. He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, but still they kept edging back, even as he bit his lip to herd them away and cursed under his breath that he was too old to be crying like a child. But he did feel like a child, a child that wanted unconditional love from the one person they cared for the most, but this child found that his love was not mutual, it was unrequited, and on top of that he wasn’t even a child anymore, he was a colony. Just a colony, nothing else. He didn’t even deserve to get the title of a child, or a friend, or a brother, or even…lover.
He was just a stupid colony.
The tears burned and the acid bite of England’s words burned, and the memories of last night burned even hotter until the flush of his cheeks and the heaving of his breath scorched his very skin.
When they had returned home last night, America never would have anticipated a reaction like that from England. It had scared him at first-really terrified him to see that side of England-but even after England forced himself onto him, even as he left bruises that were still tender to the touch, America couldn’t help that he didn't feel violated after it was all over. Instead, it felt like he had found something. It was as if that something had been missing, something delicate and precious, that had always been there, right before his fingers, but just out of grasp until hours ago.
He didn’t quite know what the feeling was, but he did know that it wasn’t hate and it wasn’t resentment. There was a fear, a little, because he didn’t know what he was doing and he was scared, and England was forceful in a way that he hadn’t ever seen him be-but when he awoke the next morning he wasn’t mad and he wasn’t sad, and all he wanted to do was see England and sort through these feelings. But…
America sniffled and wiped his face. England was gone. Even after all those harsh words, even after the dull pain he felt deep within his chest, England’s absence was still felt.
"But I'm just a stupid colony," America mumbled underneath his breath. He couldn't get the words off his lips, he couldn't think a thought without them coming back into his mind and taunting him with their hurtful presence. Nothing more than a colony. The tears wouldn't stop, but they lessened and America was finally able to let go of the counter and balance himself. It hurt, like a dull thud in the hollow of his chest, but at the moment it was the only thing telling him that he was alive, that his heart was still beating, even though it felt like it had been shattered into a million pieces.
He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched. "You're wrong England, I know you're wrong." He said, his words choked but a hint of his old self within their depths. "I'm not...I-I'm..." He covered his face with his hands, unable to continue. Pathetically, he leaned his hip against the side of the counter. "Why did you hurt me?" He sobbed into his hands, swearing to himself that when this was over, when he could finally calm the torment of his emotions, he was never going to let England make him feel this way again.
Never again.
Author: masanami
Character(s): US x UK // UK x US
Word Count: 4,883
Rating: R
Genre: Drama
Timeline: American Revolution
Warnings: Graphic, angst, dark, explicit
Summary: England becomes aware of changes in young America, making him begin to see the growing colony in a different light and leading to events that will forever change their relationship.
Author's Note: I found this to be a very emotional chapter and getting the flow of the sentences without losing the feeling behind them was really difficult. I tried to go for a happy medium, but I still wasn't happy with it either way, so I'm just posting it as is--flaws and all. Enjoy! ;)
Light filtered through the curtains of the bedroom window, bathing the otherwise dark room in a dusky morning glow. England slowly awoke from the comforting dark of slumber, a groan slipping between his lips as he rolled onto his side and ducked his head underneath the pillow. He didn’t want to wake up, he wanted to sleep and remain lost within the abyss of slumber, but sleep would not welcome him with a warm embrace. Instead of being encircled by the oblivion of slumber, reality slowly began to come to light like the turning of a page, and the events of the previous night pushed through the haze of his early morning consciousness. He remembered spending the day with America, the party, the political discussions, and then…
England’s emerald eyes snapped open from underneath the pillow. Fingers trembling, he slowly pulled the pillow away from his face, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light of the room’s interior. His fingers clenched around the pillow within his grasp, as if he were hanging on for dear life, and in some respects he was, because the thing he saw truly terrified him to the very core of his soul. America lay on the other side of the bed, chest rising and falling in the deep breaths of slumber, only a measly amount of blanket covering his otherwise nude form. It was in that moment that England realized that he too lay nude and all the memories of the previous night came rushing back like a tidal wave; the sweat between two bare bodies, the moans of pleasure, the feel of America’s lips against his own, and even…the tears.
Gingerly England pushed himself up to a sitting position, careful not to disturb the bed. He leaned over and tried to look at America’s face but most of his view was obstructed by the man’s hair messily displaced about his face from sleep. In frustration, England carefully pushed aside the blankets and slipped out of the bed, his feet touching down on the cool wooden floor. He didn’t bother looking for any of his clothes because he clearly remembered discarding them somewhere in the entranceway. Instead he ventured into the bathroom where he found a robe and hastily put it on.
Freed from his nudity and no longer in fear of waking America by moving the bed, England walked over to the curtains and shut them tightly, trapping away the light for the time being. It was just dim enough to see once his eyes adjusted, and England made his way over to the side of the bed, leaning down to level his face with America’s own, which lay smashed against the mattress, the pillow careless tossed off to the side. He was breathing evenly, his face serene and tranquil in his rest.
Hesitantly, England reached out a hand and hovered it over the soft strands of golden hair. He almost touched them, but he didn’t, instead imagining how the soft strands would bend and give away with his fingers. He had touched that hair so many times in the past; playfully, teasingly, lovingly…he knew exactly how it was feel against his skin. So he held back, the fingers he still hovered over the young man’s head trembling until he moved them away and locked his fingers into a fist.
Oh, God, he felt such awful shame...
Watching his beloved America laying so peacefully after all the things he had subjected him to only hours ago. How could that face possibly remain so fragile and innocent when he awoke and remembered the awful things that England had done? How would he react?
England chewed on his bottom lip and forced away the fear that threatened to overtake him. He could do this, there had to be a way to make this right, there had to be a way to make America understand... but America was still a child, and an idiot, and he would never fully understand any explanation for his actions...
And it sent a hollow pang through England's gut as the first thing he thought about were lies. Anything to cover up the act, anything to deny what had happened. He didn't want to lie, but the weight of his shame was suffocating.
Like a flash of light the idea came to England and without a moment’s hesitation he resolved himself to it. He knew what had to be done and though he knew it would be difficult he knew that without a doubt it must be accomplished. Getting up from his kneeling position, England left behind the room and went to the guest room where he had been staying. He went to the bathroom first, washing his face in the basin and letting the soothing sound of falling water ease the tension in his body.
“I have to do it,” England told himself quietly as he prepared the bath, needing to rinse away the memories from hours ago. He buried his head in his hands, feeling the tears threaten to over take him even as he tried to resolve himself to his plan. “I have to do it,” he repeated, this time louder and with more conviction. Strings pulled at his heart but he ignored them.
He stripped off the robe and slipped into warm water, soaking his face. Grabbing a bar of soap, he began to scrub his skin until it was red and raw. He had to get the smell of America off of him, he had to rinse away every lingering emotion connected to this night, otherwise America would hate him forever.
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He didn't like the dark. There was never a time that he could remember when he found the dark to be comforting. Even in his teenage years he still imagined all the hidden horrors lurking within that black chasm, waiting patiently for him to let his guard down so that they could snatch him and drag him into that darkness. Being afraid of the dark always made sleeping hard for America. He scarcely remembered the times before England had come and taken him under his wing and protected him from that darkness, and throughout the years it had become a habitual ritual for him to crawl into the other's bed so that he didn't have to face the trepidation of his imagination alone. When England left him alone it was always hard, but America had learned to imagine that England was the pillowing that he clung to at night and he always remembered the words that England would whisper to him on those particularly bad nights.
"I love you."
Those words hurt. They hurt because he wanted to hear them, really hear them, but they never came. The night of the party, oh how America longed to hear those words. His body had been trembling with each article of clothing removed, with the way that England's hands masterfully moved over his body, with the moans of pleasure he couldn't deny. The movement of his fumbling and inexperienced fingers was embarrassing, but England never said anything. He didn't say anything at all. He moaned and would groan, and would rake his fingers through his hair until they painfully pulled at the roots, but he never uttered a single word. Not once it began, not once it ended, not even before he felt the older nation fall asleep beside him.
And that was what really hurt. It hurt because the whole entire time America just wanted to hear those three words, but England wouldn't utter them, he wouldn't even look at him. And that only made America more confused, less understanding, and feel so much more vulnerable. It didn't matter what kind of love England professed, but America just needed to know that he was loved and he was still cherished and his actions at the party weren't going to leave him tossed to the side...
Waking from the haze of sleep, America slowly opened his eyes. The light streaming in through a crack in the curtain fell right into his eyes and he groaned, turning away from the source and back into the darkness. He knew from the brightness of the light that the morning had passed and it was probably the early afternoon, and even though he must have been asleep for hours he still felt the groggy haze of slumber beckoning him to return. But sleep was impossible the moment he was awake and he knew that with absolute certainty.
He started to push himself up to his elbows but immediately regretted the action. It hurt, hurt so bad in fact that he was surprised at the shooting pain that ran down his body. Ugh, it was far from pleasant. “I didn’t think it would hurt so bad…” he mumbled to himself, grimacing as he tried to move again, this time more slowly. Moving slow helped, and when he was half way up he was able to see that he was alone.
“England…” he said softly, his blue eyes sad and cast down to the sheets that barely covered his nude form. He was afraid to think about it too much, about what everything meant and why England had acted like that. He had been so angry, angry at England for treating the colonists so poorly and for making a scene over nothing, but he never expected him to act in such a manner as that. “Why…?” He wondered aloud, but he knew that only one person could answer that question and he would have to ask him if he had any hopes of getting an answer. He wasn’t even sure how he felt, he was so confused he couldn’t even process the emotions. He loved England, that was something he had known ever since he was a newborn, but could he truly love England like this? He was scared, more so because he didn’t know how he felt, it was all a muddled mess in his mind.
Pushing aside the covers, America got out of bed and went to the bathroom. He was able to look into the mirror and saw one of the major sources of his pain: a huge bruise on his lower back that was purple and bloated. “Ouch,” he mumbled as he gingerly touched the area. It was from the door knob, being thrust up and pounded against it left a nasty reminder of the previous night’s events. Frowning, America readied the bath and got inside, trying to keep the images from the previous night out of his head until he was ready to deal them. He couldn't think about them, not clearly, not when his mind wasn't sharp and the doubtful questions of last night were still pounding against his head. It hurt to think about it, so he just wouldn't, not until he talked to England and not until after he got some answers.
It took a while before America was dressed and ready to head downstairs. The shower helped take away the edge of soreness, but mentally he wasn’t ready. He knew he couldn’t remain locked away nor could he pretend nothing happened, so he forced himself to head downstairs. As he walked down the hallway from the staircase his eyes drifted toward the front door. As he expected the clothes from the previous night were not around, but what did surprise America was the pile of luggage patiently waiting near the entranceway. He recognized it at once as England’s and it made his heart pound faster.
He hurried his step and headed toward the kitchen where he could faintly smell the whiff of England’s favorite tea. He was probably sitting right at the table waiting for him to wake up…but when America walked into the kitchen England was just rinsing out the kettle at the kitchen sink. He looked up for a moment whenever America came into the room, his eyes and face unreadable, before he went back to what he was doing.
America stood in the doorway, silently watching. The silence that stretched between them was heavy.
England took a deep breath, a long sigh heaving through his parted lips. “I was wondering when you were going to wake up.” England finally said. "Sleeping in all day isn't good for you."
“Are you going somewhere?” America asked slowly, unable to forget the bags that were waiting at the doorway.
“Yes,” England said as he wiped his wet hands off once he finished cleaning the kettle. He turned and looked at America, his gaze holding back any sliver of emotion. “I’m returning to the homeland. I trust that isn’t an issue?” he said, his tone almost rueful, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. America knew full well that England had planned on staying at least a week longer, so why was he going now? “I’ve already called for a carriage-“
“Does this have to do with last night? Is that why you’re leaving?” America asked bluntly. He found the courage to move closer. "Did I--" He began, but stopped himself short, unable to speak the words aloud. Did he do something wrong? He reached out his hands and put them on England’s shoulders, clenching his fingers around the man’s arms; desperate, scared, and hurt that he was running away like this. He didn’t even know what to think and the one person that could give him some peace of mind was just turning away and forgetting about the whole thing. But America knew he couldn’t forget, he couldn’t just wipe it away from his memory. He was so scared his entire body was trembling. He needed answers and if England left...who would give them to him?
England was unforgiving. “Let go,” he said sternly.
“But England, please, just listen a minute-“
“I don’t have any obligation to listen to someone acting so inappropriate.” Finally, America released his grip, his hands falling to his sides and eyes staring at the ground.
England folded his arms and looked down at the young colony. “The only thing you should take from last night is the belief that you are my property and mine alone, and I can do as I wish with my property.” He smoothed down the folds of his clothing. “You are nothing but a colony and a colony must do as the Empire commands. Don’t forget that or I will have to teach you once again what it means to be conquered.”
America bit his lower lip, trying to distract himself from the sudden clench in his chest. He looked at the ground, tears threatening the corners of his eyes and causing his voice to choke, but somehow he managed to hold them at bay despite the raw pain. “Is that all I ever meant to you? I’m just some colony?” He just couldn’t believe it. All this time, all the love they had shared between them, had it really meant nothing? And last night… America's fingers clenched into fists at his sides and he refused to believe it. England was lying, he had to be lying.
“Of course,” England stated. “What did you think you were? Family, a lover, a true brother?” He snorted in distaste. “You are a subordinate, America, and subordinates should not forget their place, lest they wish to bring punishment to themselves.” He cupped his fingers underneath America’s chin and forced the boy to look up at him. He paused for a moment, a little unsteady as he stared into those throbbing blue eyes.
“I hope you have learned your lesson, America.” He paused for a moment at the colony’s silence.
“Yes, sir.” America mumbled, subjected through the agony that was making his shoulders shudder. “I understand.” England's words left no room for questioning or doubt.
There was a knock on the door and England knew that his carriage had arrived. “I will be leaving now, I expect you will keep things in order here in the New World until my next return.” He said before walking past America, leaving the boy standing there in stunned silence.
America couldn’t will himself to move. He merely listened to England’s parting words, words that came out as more of a threat than a promised return. When he finally heard the open and close of the front door only then did America let himself sink to the ground and release all the tears that he had pushed away.
____________________________________
England was grateful a ship was traveling to London that very afternoon.
He was ashamed, but the only thoughts that consumed his mind in the morning were ones of fleeing. He had broken the one thing he fostered feelings for, the one precious and delicate innocence that he always wanted to protect. Even if America wasn't angry, even if part of the boy thought that he understood, England knew it would only be a matter of time before the fine threads around the boy unraveled and he crumbled to pieces.
England knew he couldn't suffer the agony of watching that. It was better that he do it himself and do it fast.
His fingers gripped tightly onto the side of the carriage as he pulled himself inside and curtly ordered to the driver to take him to the port. He sat down heavily, forcing his emerald eyes to stare at the empty space in front of him, not allowing himself a chance to look back. He had to be strong, what he was doing was the right thing, the words had already been said, there was no turning back now. It was just too late.
“It’s for your own good, America.” He said softly, trying to reassure himself and his own actions. The hurt that he had seen in America’s eyes was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. This would hurt him, it would run deep, but England knew it was necessary to counter his own shameful acts.
As the carriage took him toward the port, England sat back and tightly closed his eyes. “But things will never be the same,” he said aloud. Of that, he was certain. With one night’s actions and several carefully spoken words, he destroyed every bond he had ever made with the one person he loved above all else.
England bit his lower lip, keeping the tears at bay. “I’m such a dolt,” he mumbled. He could never forget that this was all his fault. America would never return to that innocent child that he loved, and England was charged with shattering the last fragments of a reality that he had clung to so dearly. He had loved him so much; raising America as a little child, being his brother and his protector. But he hadn't handled his growth well; he lashed out at him, hurt him, and even claimed him. And now, as a consequence, he was going to have to hurt him even further. He was going to have to break every lasting--every beautifully precious memory--that the boy had with him.
He wanted America to hate him.
If America thought that the previous night meant nothing then he would eventually forget, he would move on with his life and he could be happy. But if he knew, if he knew the way that England felt--the disgusting thoughts that painted his subconscious--then he would scar the boy in a much worse way than he already had...
As he sat there within the carriage the only thing that England could do was think about the past and how it was never going to be the same again.
“England!” America said as he snuggled up against him, leaning his head against his chest and wrapping his arms around his stomach.
“What is it, America?” England asked sleepily. It was late and England was exhausted from chasing around the energetic child all day. He had hoped that he would finally get some rest but it seemed that America persisted in denying him sleep.
England smiled softly and felt his fingers running through the boy’s soft sandy-brown hair, watching the gentle rise and fall of each comfortable breath. The boy had refused to sleep in his own bed whenever England was visiting so he didn’t even try to argue, instead choosing to let this innocent pleasantry pass. He didn’t mind after all, sleeping next to the little body that loved to snuggle against his chest brought a calm like no other to the core of his being.
"Don’t go to sleep yet.” America said, sleepily but still awake enough to remind England that he wasn’t allowed to fall asleep first, as he was rather prone to do. He raised his chin and looked up at England with tired eyes. “You always fall asleep first.”
England smirked, nodding with heavy lidded eyes. He wanted to see that beautiful and innocent smile. “Why don’t I teach you how to use the rifle tomorrow? I think it’s high time you learnt.”
America smiled brightly. “Really? Seriously?” He was bouncing up in bed now, tossing aside the covers in his excitement. “I can’t wait! Let’s go right now!” In his excitement he completely forgot about the late hour and sleep.
“Not right now, it’s late.” England reminded him, laughing gently when he saw the disappointed expression. “Tomorrow will come soon enough. First thing in the morning I will show you, but you have to go to sleep right this minute.” That seemed to sedate the boy’s roaring excitement enough to get him back under the covers and laying against his chest. He still wrestled with his excitement, but it was contained for the moment.
“Thanks England,” the boy mumbled as he snuggled against his older brother. His blue eyes slowly began to close as his sleepiness began to take over. He was getting older but he was still such a child in spirit. England was grateful for that.
__________________________________________
There was the sound of footsteps, the door opening and closing, and then England was gone. America was alone, unable to move his gaze from the invisible spot on the wall, unable to acknowledge the silence that engulfed him. His entire body shuddered with tears and he leaned forward onto the cool wooden ground, banging his fist onto the floor, and sobbing so uncontrollably that his chest started to heave from the effort. It burned, it all burned so badly. He didn't know if it was the sting in his lungs, his eyes drowning in his tears, or the crumbling pieces of his heart--but something was piercing through his skin, engulfing his entire body with a pain he had never before experienced. Why did it hurt so much? Why did England...? But the thoughts were lost at the mere idea of England, and he had to banish them away because he could barely breath and his vision was hazy from the water in his eyes, and he swore he felt like he was really dying...
Why did it hurt so much?
Time passed slowly and he didn't know how long he remained like that. At some point in time, his body slumped forward and he lay on the ground, curling his body inward. He was thankful that the house was empty, that he didn't have any companions that lived with him, because he didn't want anyone to see him like this. He didn't want to be seen broken down, unable to even move from the floor.
Moving would make it too real, it would mean he would have to accept that this large house was empty and that the bags that had been waiting by the door were gone, and upstairs in his bedrooms the sheets were still...
They would still smell like England.
It took some time before America was finally able to stop the tears and drag himself off of the kitchen floor. He felt weak, drained, and had to grip the countertop so tightly that his fingers blotched white just so that he could stand. He stood there for a long time, just staring out into the nothingness, wanting to cry more but thinking that he had no more tears left to shed. He didn't even know if it would help, if there was anything that could help him now. He didn't know how to deal with this, he was too scared to deal with this.
When he heard England’s omission, he was sure that it was just a farce. He wanted to shake it off, believe that he had merely misunderstood the other nation, that this was all some horrible joke and that England never meant a word of it-but England had said those words with such force and conviction that, as much as he wanted to deny it, it left little doubt in America’s mind that he was indeed telling the truth.
He did it on purpose.
You're just a colony
England's words echoed in his head.
What did you think you were? Family, a lover, a true brother?
He had said those words purposefully. He said those words with the intention to hurt.
America wanted to mourn, but he couldn’t. He was caught between this desperate feeling of loneliness and death-because yes, it felt like a cold hollowed form had reached out his hand and grabbed that loving relationship that he had so cherished and wretched it away from him forever-
Was he delusional? He should have always of known that he wasn’t special, that England never really cared about him the way he thought he did, and it should have been obvious but he was too stupid to notice. But there were so many moments, so many cherished memories...
God, he was such an idiot.
And that was enough of a decision for his tears, and they came streaming down from his face with renewed vigor like a torrid flood. He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, but still they kept edging back, even as he bit his lip to herd them away and cursed under his breath that he was too old to be crying like a child. But he did feel like a child, a child that wanted unconditional love from the one person they cared for the most, but this child found that his love was not mutual, it was unrequited, and on top of that he wasn’t even a child anymore, he was a colony. Just a colony, nothing else. He didn’t even deserve to get the title of a child, or a friend, or a brother, or even…lover.
He was just a stupid colony.
The tears burned and the acid bite of England’s words burned, and the memories of last night burned even hotter until the flush of his cheeks and the heaving of his breath scorched his very skin.
When they had returned home last night, America never would have anticipated a reaction like that from England. It had scared him at first-really terrified him to see that side of England-but even after England forced himself onto him, even as he left bruises that were still tender to the touch, America couldn’t help that he didn't feel violated after it was all over. Instead, it felt like he had found something. It was as if that something had been missing, something delicate and precious, that had always been there, right before his fingers, but just out of grasp until hours ago.
He didn’t quite know what the feeling was, but he did know that it wasn’t hate and it wasn’t resentment. There was a fear, a little, because he didn’t know what he was doing and he was scared, and England was forceful in a way that he hadn’t ever seen him be-but when he awoke the next morning he wasn’t mad and he wasn’t sad, and all he wanted to do was see England and sort through these feelings. But…
America sniffled and wiped his face. England was gone. Even after all those harsh words, even after the dull pain he felt deep within his chest, England’s absence was still felt.
"But I'm just a stupid colony," America mumbled underneath his breath. He couldn't get the words off his lips, he couldn't think a thought without them coming back into his mind and taunting him with their hurtful presence. Nothing more than a colony. The tears wouldn't stop, but they lessened and America was finally able to let go of the counter and balance himself. It hurt, like a dull thud in the hollow of his chest, but at the moment it was the only thing telling him that he was alive, that his heart was still beating, even though it felt like it had been shattered into a million pieces.
He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched. "You're wrong England, I know you're wrong." He said, his words choked but a hint of his old self within their depths. "I'm not...I-I'm..." He covered his face with his hands, unable to continue. Pathetically, he leaned his hip against the side of the counter. "Why did you hurt me?" He sobbed into his hands, swearing to himself that when this was over, when he could finally calm the torment of his emotions, he was never going to let England make him feel this way again.
Never again.