[Hetalia] Revolutionary Lines :: Chapter 8
Title: Revolutionary Lines
Author: masanami
Character(s): US x UK // UK x US
Word Count: 6,515
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 never thought I would actually get to this point. This is a real turning point for Revolutionary Lines and will mark a new tone for the rest of the fic. I'm thoroughly excited and I hope you guys will be too. Twists, turns, and much more to come. I genuinely appreciate all the feedback and comments I've received. They truly inspire me to continue to vigorously write more. Also, so many thanks to blulious for beta-reading this chapter and future ones. You're awesome.
Sometimes, just faintly, Canada would hear his voice. The syllables would roll faintly off the tongue, so smooth and silky soft in an illustration of words that made his own harsher speech seem crude in comparison. He could picture the fine detail of the immaculately dressed individual, the way the perfectly tailored clothing clung to the curve of muscles and figure in just the right ways and proportions. It made him wonder how he could ever possibly have something in common with a person that seemed so distant from himself, how he could share a bond with this ethereal person that always held his attention so vividly in his memories. He pictured those fingers brushing through his wavy blonde hair, the same blonde as the person saying goodbye, and it always saddened him to remember that things would never go back to that time again.
Ah, mon cher, it seems our luck has come to an end.
Those were the last words that France had uttered to him in their parting. He had only been a child then, chest heaving in hiccuped cries, Kumajiro clutched against his chest.
Don’t cry, my little Canada, you will be fine.
At the time Canada hadn’t understood. He didn’t know why he had to leave France and go with England, nor why France would no longer be allowed to visit him.
One day I will see you again.
Canada was still waiting.
He wished he could still believe that that day would come, but as the years passed Canada realized that even France had forgotten about him. After all, why would France visit America but never come see him? It was another fact of his life that Canada had come to accept; he would always be the one forgotten and left out. He was overshadowed in everything and nothing about that would change.
Since that day when France had said his goodbye his life had changed and he had become a whispered voice in the backdrop, a drowned out existence under England’s care.
He didn’t blame England. After all, who could compare to a brother that was everything he wasn’t? America. Always America, always the one that England liked best, always the one that was the most athletic, the most outgoing, the forerunner of the New World. America and his bright smile, America and his strength, America and the pride that was so clear in England’s eyes. He was England’s everything, and it was a painfully obvious fact to the one that was left behind.
But Canada was okay with that, because-unlike his brother-he did not seek out the spotlight or vie for attention and affection. That, he had realized some time ago, was something given freely and without cohesion, and only then would it really be a more beautiful and meaningful thing. Like those early years with France, when for once he had been the one that was looked upon so brightly, Canada knew that only when love was shared freely would it truly be a liberating emotion. Trying to bind or chain down love would only wither and decay a sometimes turbulent emotion-it would only lead to heartbreak.
And even though France was now gone, Canada knew he had gained something in return. He was able to meet his brother for the first time, and despite his shortcomings and sometimes rude behavior, Canada loved America. As they grew older it was better, and America, though still selfish as he had been as a child with England’s attention, came to see him as more of a brother rather than a intruder on his relationship with England. Even if Canada did not shine in England’s sight, at least through America’s eyes he was a person worth being with. And while that brotherly love between them was not the same as the depth of France’s affection, Canada was grateful for the small place that America had allowed him despite the wholeness with which he shared with England.
And perhaps it was because of that knowledge, knowing the way in which England and America were so deeply interwoven, that Canada couldn’t believe the news that finally reached his doorstep. He had held Kimajiko to his chest, fingers clenched tightly, even as the messenger told him about what had happened in Lexington and then Concord.
It was not possible he told himself, there was no way anything could ever get between England and America. He knew them both well enough to know that they shared a bond far deeper than he had ever seen, one that he had only glimmered with France. But when talk spread throughout his territories it became an inescapable fact that this was indeed reality, and something had gone terribly wrong between America and England.
Almost over night it seemed as if everything had changed once again.
First there was fighting and now there was rebellion in America’s colonies. England had been driven from Concord, attacked and driven back through the dirt-covered roads to Boston, assaulted constantly by colonists that hid in the thick forests, tucked away in tree branches and dense cover. And then there was the battle at Bunker Hill, and even more casualties, more soldiers, more fighting. And it wasn’t until after that battle that word finally reached Canada through soldiers that were carrying messages into his territory. It seemed that England had sequestered an area in New York to battle against America and reclaim the colonies in rebellion, and finally word had been sent to him, the often forgotten brother who had been cut off from all the word of fighting by the distance between.
What was happening?
Canada didn’t know and it terrified him. What could have possibly of happened to cause this?
He sat down with a heavy sigh, letting Kumako climb out of his lap and tumble across the couch. The white bear looked at him with a cocked head, as if trying to consider the person before him and for even a moment Canada fumbled over the name of his constant companion. He was too nervous, too tense and it was far more than he could handle. He fumbled his fingers together in his lap, trying to reason with the information that had been gnawing at the back of his mind ever since he had heard word about this. None of these actions were like America, not the America he knew, not the America who would always garner for England’s attention and affection-if this was some cry for help or need from England then this was surely not the way to go about it. Even Canada had a hard time reasoning with that information and it only caused the creases in his forehead to furrow deeper in contemplation. Nothing surfaced, no startling revelation that would explain his brother’s actions.
Almost immediately he had penned a letter to America, hoping for some sort of explanation, but his hopes were quickly dashed when he received a reply in the mail. His brother’s response was short and curt:
I’m coming to speak with you. We’ll talk then.
Canada didn’t know if he should be surprised or terrified by this. The person he was hearing about in the papers was not the America he knew-even his letter lacked the usual carefree banter in which they normally spoke. Where had his brother gone?
And when America finally arrived at his door, a small group of militia following just behind the young colony’s horse, Canada knew he shouldn’t have been surprised at the change he saw. America looked tired, he looked worn, and it wasn’t just from the long ride into his northern colonies. There was a heavy weight on his slumped shoulders, and when they hugged Canada was surprised by how thin he felt in his arms.
“America,” he whispered, almost as if he couldn’t believe the person standing right before.
“Let’s go inside Canada,” his brother had said softly and together they walked into the house to talk privately.
America sat down heavily on the couch, running gloved fingers through his hair, and those dull blue irises looked at him through thick blinking lashes. “I guess you’ve heard, huh?”
He looked a bit better, Canada reasoned, once he was inside. “You’re fighting with England.”
“I think you’d call it more than fighting.” The look that reached America’s face made him…it made him look so different. He had never witnessed this type of anarchy within that blue gaze, like the churning of rapids, only stable within its instability.
Canada didn’t say anything and a thick silence stretched between them like layers of blankets, wavering over the thin balance between them, that intense gaze making Canada feel uncomfortable. He wanted to say something to ease the burden he saw resting on America’s shoulders, but he didn’t know what to say. He wanted answers, but that gaze made him afraid of the answers.
Finally, Canada sighed. “America, don’t get mad. I don’t want to argue with you, but I don’t even really understand why you and England are fighting. This doesn’t make sense to me.” Even if there were problems with the government, certainly it didn’t warrant this type of action.
America looked up from across the table and his visage softened, those blue eyes seeming to relax. Canada felt like he could breath again.
“Sorry, I guess…I just get upset when I think about it.” America looked away, staring at some object in the distance, unwilling to meet his brother’s own questioning gaze. It was almost as if America could see his own confliction in his gaze.
“But what are you going to do about it? England is understanding, but fighting him like this is going make him more upset.”
“So what? I don’t care. Let him get upset.”
“You don’t mean that.” Canada pointed out. “When this all blows over-“
“What do you mean ‘when this all blows over’?” America was looking at him with sharp eyes that caused Canada to freeze. They were so fierce that it sent a shiver down his spine. This side of America, this was a vicious and violent side. Was this the reaction and consequence of rebellion?
“Well, um, I mean, this isn’t going to go on forever…eventually England will forgive-“
“I don’t want forgiveness from him.” America interrupted, his arms slowly unfolding from across his chest as he leaned forward. “What? You think I need him?”
Canada’s eyebrows rose at that and the implication behind said words.
“Haven’t you even been listening to what my people are saying?”
“You mean that stuff in those pamphlets by that guy…” Canada had a very dreadful feeling swelling up in the back of his mind, and it stayed there and in the pit of his stomach where it twisted and churned. This could be very bad. Did America even understand what he was talking about?
“Thomas Paine.”
“Yeah, him.” Canada sighed. “America, you can’t be serious? This is England we’re talking about here.” America was the favorite, the golden child, the one that England loved the most. “England must be so worried.”
America’s gaze clouded. “England doesn’t care,” was his snapped response. “I’m through with England.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yes I do!” America said heatedly. “I came here because I want you to join me. We can be free, together. We don’t need England anymore. We can take care of ourselves and…”
The disapproval reading in Canada’s face was enough for America to let his words trail off.
He hung his head. “You won’t…will you?”
Canada licked his lips in thought. This was so strange, seeing America like this. He had always been so attached to England, so willing to do whatever he wanted, but here and now he had expressed nothing but aggression against their provider. “I like England, America. Even though France is gone…” He said, a slight quiver to his whispery voice. “And I miss France…but England has been good to me too. He’s been better than good to you.”
“You mean unjust taxing and killing people is good? What rock are you living under Canada? Can’t you see that he’s gone too far? We have to rebel against him and show him-“
“Don’t talk like that America.” Canada said, cutting him off with words sharp enough to make America listen. “You didn’t even tell me you were doing this. You planned all of this, acted against England, and not even once did you mention it to me. How do you think that made me feel? I’m your brother and I was left out. I only found out about it after everything was over with and now you’re asking me to join you?”
“I…I didn’t…”
“You didn’t think about me. You never do.” Canada finished for him.
America looked at him for several long moments. “Fine, then you don’t need to join me. It’s not like I need your help anyway. I can do this all on my own but I thought I’d offer to give you some protection from England.” He started to get up.
“America, don’t go. Won’t you even listen?”
“I’ve heard enough. I came to ask you something and I got your answer. If you want to stay with England then stay with him. See if I care what you do!”
Canada scrambled to his feet as America got up and started to leave. He reached out, grabbing his brother’s arm and forced him to stop. “America, please, if you do this you’re going to get hurt. Forget that this is an insane idea, remember just who England is. He’s too strong, too power. You’ll be crushed.” And it will hurt, Canada thought, just like it hurt when France left. Even in the shadows Canada didn’t want his brother to endure those suffocating feelings.
America wouldn’t turn to look at his brother, his eyes fixated on the doorway, like he was just barely keeping himself from yanking his arm away and bolting from the room. “I don’t care.” He mumbled, and this time he did yank his arm away but made no move to leave. “I have help.”
“What do you mean?” Canada asked, his lips frowning in trepidation.
“France is going to help me.”
Canada felt his breath hitch in his chest. “F-france?” When America nodded his head, Canada brought his hands to his face, covering his cowering lips. “America…this…this is going to cause a world war.”
“If…” America’s words were slow, softly whispered syllables. “If that’s what it takes to make England see me and acknowledge me…then that’s what will have to happen.”
This was not America.
Canada watched the person before him; the clenched jaw, the fingers grasp tightly into a fist, the slight quiver in those broad shoulders that Canada thought he might be imaging. “You can’t…” Canada said in a hushed whisper.
“What?” Finally America turned his head ever-so-slightly and looked at his brother.
“You can’t do this.” Canada repeated, louder this time. “Leave France out of this-anyone, just not France. You know how he and England fight. If you do this-if you side with France-you know he’ll never forgive you, don’t you? Never, never will he forgive you.” He repeated it, making sure it went straight through his brother’s thick head. “And France…” Canada’s chest heaved in a sigh. “I don’t want him…to get hurt…can’t you just leave him out of this?” Even in his abandonment, Canada couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the defeat in France’s face if he once again lost to England.
America bit his lower lip in thought, and his eyes clouded over with a haze that marred that beautiful blue sky reflected in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Canada.” A sigh escaped between those lips that parted in anguish. “I have to do this.” And then, as if he could not stand the look of welling heartbreak on Canada’s face, he walked toward the door.
But anger was quickly filling the hurt and worry that toppled Canada’s being as America stalked away. How dare America think so selfishly, how dare he involve other people in his fight between England? France, the one person that always harbored Canada’s respect-Canada’s love-and America could so easily use him to gain some fleeting notion of independence from the one person who Canada could scarcely see him without. And now he was leaving, without a true explanation, without really saying anything other than join me or don’t.
Canada was furious.
The moment of hesitation was swift, and soon Canada was after his brother, running through the house with feet echoing loudly on the wooden floors. He flung open the front door, and America was standing there, getting ready to mount his horse, eyes looking up in confusion as Canada ran right for him. America didn’t have time to react before Canada tackled him to the ground.
“Damn you, damn you and your selfish ways!” Canada screamed at the top of his lungs, grabbing onto the folds of America’s clothes, straddling him down to the ground and pounding his body up and down against the earth. “Don’t you ever think about anyone but yourself? Can’t you leave France out of this? Can’t you just make up with England? I know you love him so why are you pushing him away, y-you idiot!”
America could only stare up at him with widened blue eyes, even as the militia that had accompanied him yanked Canada off his body and pulled him away. Canada tried to get free, and he was grumbling and kicking out his legs, just wanting to hit America, just wanting to bring him back to reality.
“Let him go,” America whispered, propping himself up on his elbows, looking at how his brother sat slouched on the dirt-covered ground, face cradled in his hands.
Canada sobbed, chest heaving. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to say, but all he could think about was how stupid America was being and how blind he was to the consequences of his actions. He didn’t understand, he didn’t know how badly this could hurt. “You idiot,” he mumbled indiscernibly. “I hate you…I hate you for this. I don’t want anything to do with you.” He didn’t know if he said those words out of spite or out of angry, if they were induced by his worry for France or something else that elusively swayed out of his grasp. He just knew, in this moment, that America was the last person he wanted to see.
He heard the shift of movement, and then felt a hovering presence over his body. A hand reached down and ran through his wavy hair, a hand he knew very well. America leaned down next to him and embraced him in a tight hug that caused his shoulders to shiver and shake. “I’m sorry but I have to do it. I wish you could understand…” his brother whispered, words choked back and strangled. America held on for only a moment longer before he slowly released his grip and stood.
Canada didn’t even bother looking up nor moving, not until he heard the horses moving and the echoed beat of their hooves were lost in the distance.
To him, the real America had left a long time ago.
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The sun’s solace bathed the garden patio in brimming light. The lush and manicured gardens stretched out from the patio view, an orchid of brightly colored flowers blossoming from the depth of greenery traversed by stone pathways. In the distance the light sound of bubbling streams filtered through the warm air, a hidden fountain in the alcove of trimmed bushes hidden just out of sight as a picturesque spot for a lovers’ tryst.
It was a beautiful day in Madrid.
Spain stretched his arms out above his head, neck craning to look out into that manicured lawn at the person that lay sprawled out on the green grass. A smile crept into the corner of his eyes, a shining testament of content within those brown irises and the obvious devotion to that person.
“Is that your charge?”
Spain turned toward the sound of the voice and the Frenchman whom had spoken. Always immaculately dressed in shades of lavender and blues, France leaned against the stone railing of the patio, arms loosely crossed over his chest, wavy hair tied back from his face with a ponytail at the base of his neck. “You mean Romano? He’s taking a siesta.” Spain explained as his arms dropped to his side.
And indeed, the brown-haired Italian was snoozing on one of the hilled slopes, arms cupped back behind his head. There was a basket next to him, half-eaten tomatoes filling the confines. His curl bounced like a booey in the water with the slightest shift of a breeze, but the Italian seemed oblivious to all else but the warmth of the sun and the dreams which whisked away his carefree thoughts.
Spain leaned his elbow forward on the railing, eyes glancing off into the distance and the city of Madrid that loomed beyond the walls of his home. Though France had only arrived a short while ago, Spain was merely waiting for the other man to bring up the exact reason for his visit. He had more than a sneaking suspicion as to the course of dialogue that was to take place, and Spain was not sure if he would be inclined to like the testaments that were to be shared. “You don’t usually come down this far south without anything to gain.” He coaxed, still staring into the distance.
“Mon cher, you read me so well.” France stepped closer until they were standing shoulder to shoulder, both eyes staring out into the distance. “Madrid is as beautiful as always, my lovely Spain.” The other nation spoke. “I would love to visit these gorgeous streets and the beautiful exotic women that walk them, but unfortunately I come in regards to a matter much less pleasant. My visit is in regards to England.”
Darkness clouded Spain’s vision at the mention of the head of the British Empire. Bitterness and anger welled from within his torso, and Spain could not hold back the bite in his voice. “England,” he spat with rolling syllables. “What about him?” He held little love for the island nation, not after the war and his subsequent loss of his colonies which had provided him with so much until they had been lost to British rule.
A smirk danced on France’s lips, cunning and calculated. “I assume you’ve heard about the happenings in the New World?”
“Vaguely,” Spain said, his voice softened and now tipped with curiosity.
“America is declaring independence.”
Spain’s brown eyes widened, his jaw slackening. “Little America? Independent?” Word of the stifle between England and America had been traveling for some time now, but independence…that was a new word that Spain had yet to hear. No doubt England would be going to great lengths to make sure it stayed that way, but France had always been the type to find gossip and news that others would not otherwise hear.
“He’s not little anymore.” France pointed out as he leaned back against the ledge, elbows resting on the solid stone. “In fact, he’s quite serious.” He watched Spain closely, surveying the marked expressions. “He’s asked for my help.”
Caution clouded Spain’s vision, just as he expected France had not come without a purpose.
France straightened up, stepping closer to the Spaniard and leaning close, words laced with delicate action and sweet whispers of nothing. “What do you say, mon cher? Ready for revenge?” France pulled back, eyes slightly narrowed, and adjusted the folds of his frilled blouse. “I think it is time that England’s delusions of grandeur are brought down.”
Spain looked at him pensively, and France could see the ideas and possibility clicking and turning together. “This can’t just be about England. War again, against his strength?” There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that with England’s control and possessions in so many places-especially America-made him a force not to be fought with lightly.
“Ah-I suppose I have my own failing that I wish to pay back for.”
“You mean Canada?”
The Frenchman’s eyes closed ever-so-slightly, and the tension in his shoulders were almost noticeably as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “You may say that…”
“I heard you were so upset when he was taken from you all those years ago.” Spain continued, eyebrows inclined upward. “Everyone heard about the fuss you made-getting kicked out of bars in Paris, making scenes. It hurt didn’t it?”
France’s eyes narrowed seriously. “Would you feel any differently if Romano was taken from you?”
Spain’s brown eyes glanced back to where the Italian was still dozing. He shrugged his shoulders, arms raised in giving. “You’re right.”
“Then you understand how important this is.” France continued. “Without America he would be nothing. He has relied too heavily on that young boy. It will be his undoing.” France tapped his chin and the light stubble. “And losing his own charge, someone he so obviously loves…”
“He will be broken into pieces.” Spain continued for him.
“Exactly,” France said with a smirk.
“And about losing my colonies in America…”
“If you want them back then I wouldn’t expect it.” France said. “But we can certainly punish the one responsible for taking them away. It is time for the British Empire to be toppled.”
Spain sighed, hands on his hips. “This all sounds good, but its not enough of a reason to convince me about America-“
“I’ve sent America a wonderful little package filled with my love and devotion.” France interrupted, a grin curling the corner of his lips. His chin inclined ever-so-slightly and there was a knowing look in his eyes, like he had just pulled out an ace. “And I believe it will be more than enough to convince you.”
Spain’s brown eyes squinted as he looked at him with both a hint of curiosity and caution. “You…you didn’t?” Spain’s jaw slackened as the Frenchman nodded his head. Unbelievable! Spain could only lean back and let out a bellow of laughter. “That poor kid! Though I suppose it will be good for him.” A grin spread across Spain’s lips. “I might have to join you after all, France. If you could get him to go to the New World then maybe taking down England isn’t such a remote possibility.”
France smirked, obviously pleased. “My thoughts exactly.”
“Damnit Spain, why are you so loud?” Came a sleepy voice from the pathway leading to the garden.
Both Spain and France turned to look as Romano trudged into view. Rubbings his eyes sleepily and with a basket cradled against his side, the Italian muttered underneath his breath. “Spain…” He began, but his words trailed off when he noticed France, a yelp escaping between pursed lips and the basket falling to the ground, contents spilling all over the floor. He was next to Spain’s side in an instant, cowering behind the other nation, fingers gripped in the folds of Spain’s shirt. “W-why is that France bastard here?”
Spain laughed, reaching around to pat the Southern Italian on the head even as he clung desperately to his clothes. “It’s okay, Romano. France was just here to share some interesting information.”
Though Romano’s grip didn’t relax, his head popped out over Spain’s side. “What can this bastard tell that’s worth it?”
“Ah,” Spain began, with a small smile. “That it may just be worth taking a trip to the New World soon.”
France raised a single eyebrow, lips forming a small smile. “Then you will go?”
Spain smirked. “Count me in. I’m ready for some payback.”
Wearily, Romano looked between them. “You are both stupid bastards,” he mumbled from his cowering stance.
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America frowned as he adjusted the thick layers of his clothing, fumbling a bit nervously at the vest and tie.
“Are you okay?” Frederick asked from beside him.
He wasn’t fine at all, he was nervous as hell, but he couldn’t say that aloud. “I’m great,” he mumbled instead. “A little nervous I guess.”
“This is a very important day, America.” Frederick reminded America.
He didn’t need to be told twice, he knew well enough on his own but these last few weeks had been so trying that he found himself struggling just to make it through the day. His fight with Canada had left him disheartened and saddened, and since Bunker Hill there had been endless skirmishes with the redcoats. And America hadn’t seen nor heard from England since that day on the bridge in his fight for Concord, something which brought an unexpected amount of anxiety to his being. He had a hard time judging whether it was a good or a bad thing, but in the end he knew it was for the best. He couldn’t allow England to muddle his thoughts, not on this important date, not when he was about to take an important step toward the future.
Today, on July 4th 1776, he was going to celebrate his first birthday.
He stood in front of the large oak doors, the light murmurs of voices just reaching through the sealed entrance way. Frederick was there, but he was silent beside him, a sole companion on this day that was forever going to change his life.
He wished…he wished Canada was here, that someone was here that he could share this with, that would understand how much meaning was held on this day.
The doors were opened and a man waved him inside.
America gulped, giving a long glance to Frederick.
Frederick clapped him on the shoulder and smiled reassuringly. “Good luck, America, this is a new beginning for you.”
America nodded and tentatively stepped forward. The room he entered was empty but he could hear voices from the adjourning room. The door closed silently behind him.
“Right through that doorway,” the man said and nodded his head in the direction of the voices.
The person was gone beside him a moment later but America scarcely noticed. He felt anxiety welling in the pit of his stomach like a tightening fist that bombarded him from within. He was nauseous, he was sweating, and he was utterly exhilarated. This was it, this was really it. He would no longer be a part of the British Empire; he would be his own nation and his own people.
It was both terrifying and exciting at the same moment.
He moved toward the voices.
The room was warm and brightly lit with candles, and the men huddled around the large wooden table in the center of the room. America stood in the back of the room, widened blue eyes forgetting all the worry and anxiety the moment his eyes laid down on the piece of parchment that lay spread across the table. He felt his breath hitch in his chest even as he watched the way in which those men spoke to one another, the murmured whispers and the voices that rose above the din. Without a doubt, without any hesitation, America knew he was witnessing a new beginning of not only his people but also himself.
He wanted to step forward but he knew he couldn’t. Being here, when this was being done, when he was being liberated was an honor itself, but he could not interrupt his people who were making this possible. This was their moment as well, their time to shine.
This was really going to happen, he thought, he was no longer going to be a colony. He would no longer belong to the British Empire or be a part of England himself, he would be his own person, an entity entirely itself and not nestled within the whim of another. The thought was both warming and fleeting, and he felt a stirring within the depths of his being that churned with mixed emotion.
How would it feel…to no longer be a part of England?
Would everything change or would he feel the same? He was still so fledging and young, he didn’t have the experience of hundreds of years to back these tumultuous emotions that bombarded his mind. But he did know something, he knew that even though there was fear and hesitation, this was something he yearned for. This was something he wanted despite all the possible changes this may mean, no matter how hard it might be to let go of this one piece that had bound him to England.
Bound…such a strange word. Never had he thought of his relationship with England as binding, never until these last few years when so much had come to pass between them-when he had changed and found an image of himself. But was bound the right word to use? No, he had never been bound in the physical sense. Laws were binding, but he had broken through those, words were binding and while sometimes they seemed to strangle him, he was here and he had proven that England’s words could not hold him. Even so, even with that knowledge, he felt a tug still toward that one single person that had been such a focus in his live. America did not doubt that the strings that still held him fast to England were from his heart, because even after all of that had happened to their relationship, America knew he would always be bound to England in both heart and soul. It was the one way in which England would always bind him.
He blinked back the tears that threatened to escape from between fluttering eyelashes as the first person stepped forward to sign. He recognized the imposing figure of John Adams, who had been so vocal in those early days of riot, as the quill was dipped into ink.
For a moment fear seized him, and he gripped at the edges of his coat so tightly that he felt the rush of blood trying to desperately pump pass his steeled fists. It was warm, and America felt the light slick of perspiration against the collar of his shirt, and it made him suddenly wonder if these clothes were too tight, too formal even for an occasion such as this.
Why was he so afraid? Was it…because of England?
This truly would be the end. The final end. Even if England tore this declaration to pieces it would forever be engraved into his heart, into the hearts’ of his people, and that was something which England would never be able to touch. Forget oppression, forget rebellion, this was a new beginning. It was change, it was the last lingering remnants of a pact that had gone wrong, that had become bloated and bruised, and which could no longer sustain the needs he felt as both a country and a person. The Empire would not give them what they needed and nor could England return his love like he wanted.
Separation was inevitable.
It was a cold and hard fact. And even in the fear of losing the final linger tethers of his heart, America knew this was the right course of action. Like the warmth that seemed to spread through his body, like the arid abandonment of his emotions that now seemed so far away, this time and place seemed so gentle and welcoming in a way that England’s arms had never felt.
And with each stroke of the ink quill he felt it against his skin, and it was a tepid and rushed feeling, like waves lapping over his skin on a hot summer day. It was warm, it was cozy, and it was so beautiful that America lost his breath. He reached up a hand to his chest, and felt the thumping of his heart beating so loud that it reverberated in the hollows of his ears.
When the last name was signed he knew that he would never be the same.
It was as if that moment had finalized some meticulous change in himself, in his country and his people. It was something that would continue to grow and swell higher and higher as this document was distributed out to the people, and word spread beyond these lands, and to the rest of the world. And within those moments this soaring feel of flight would grow stronger and more powerful until America would never want to descend from the depth of these feelings, never want to allow them to be stripped away.
For a moment America stood, with complete stillness, and let the feelings absorb him, quite sure that he would never feel more wholly wonderful than this single time and place.
He felt…such liberation.
He was so happy he could have wept.
A tap on his shoulder woke him from his mesmerized state.
“America, there’s someone in the parlor to see you.” The woman said gently, a whisper just glancing off his ear.
The signing was complete and the men congratulated each other as the final signature was added. On this day he was born again. No longer a colony…he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around those words.
He nodded to the woman. “Okay, thanks.”
He felt both dizzy and lightheaded as he left the room. He wasn’t even quite sure how his feet managed to put one in front of the other, or how he even managed to stay upright. He was so full...just so full of emotion that his mind could not quite compute anything other than unadulterated happiness.
America walked to the small room near the doorway to find a man sitting in the parlor, booted feet propped up on the table, body slouched down in a plush armchair. Even from a distance he could see the expensive fabric of the thick long coat he wore, the embellishments of gold and ribbon. His white pants were spotless, the knee high boots expensive Italian leather. He didn’t recognize him, not that he could see the face very well with the feather-capped tri-horn hat that rested low on his down-turned face.
Something about this man seemed to wake America from his dazed state. There was something different about him.
“You America?” The man asked, his voice gruff, his facing never turning to glance at him even as he stepped into the room. America was surprised he even heard him, he looked as if he had been sleeping.
“Um, yeah.” He began tentatively, taking a step forward, only a few feet separating them. America felt a sudden sense of uneasy, like the person before him was strong and much more dangerous than appearances allowed. “I’m America. Who are you?”
Slowly the head inclined upward and a pair of narrowed red eyes looked up at him from under the brim of the hat. “France sent me to whip you and your army into shape.”
His lips twisted in a grin. “Name’s Prussia.”
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- American soldiers went to Canada to try and liberate them from British soldiers but the Canadians did not want to get involved, they rather liked the protection of the British Empire
- The British prepared for war with the intention of making NY their headquarters in order to divide the colonies in two so that they could not aid each other
- The idea of independence did not come to the general public until Thomas Paine's Common Sense was published
- France agreed to join the war and aid America, with the intention of bringing Spain into the alliance
- Prussia's presence is based off of Friedrich von Steuben, a Prussian soldier, who traveled to Paris and was endorsed by the French for service in training American soldiers.
Author: masanami
Character(s): US x UK // UK x US
Word Count: 6,515
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 never thought I would actually get to this point. This is a real turning point for Revolutionary Lines and will mark a new tone for the rest of the fic. I'm thoroughly excited and I hope you guys will be too. Twists, turns, and much more to come. I genuinely appreciate all the feedback and comments I've received. They truly inspire me to continue to vigorously write more. Also, so many thanks to blulious for beta-reading this chapter and future ones. You're awesome.
Sometimes, just faintly, Canada would hear his voice. The syllables would roll faintly off the tongue, so smooth and silky soft in an illustration of words that made his own harsher speech seem crude in comparison. He could picture the fine detail of the immaculately dressed individual, the way the perfectly tailored clothing clung to the curve of muscles and figure in just the right ways and proportions. It made him wonder how he could ever possibly have something in common with a person that seemed so distant from himself, how he could share a bond with this ethereal person that always held his attention so vividly in his memories. He pictured those fingers brushing through his wavy blonde hair, the same blonde as the person saying goodbye, and it always saddened him to remember that things would never go back to that time again.
Ah, mon cher, it seems our luck has come to an end.
Those were the last words that France had uttered to him in their parting. He had only been a child then, chest heaving in hiccuped cries, Kumajiro clutched against his chest.
Don’t cry, my little Canada, you will be fine.
At the time Canada hadn’t understood. He didn’t know why he had to leave France and go with England, nor why France would no longer be allowed to visit him.
One day I will see you again.
Canada was still waiting.
He wished he could still believe that that day would come, but as the years passed Canada realized that even France had forgotten about him. After all, why would France visit America but never come see him? It was another fact of his life that Canada had come to accept; he would always be the one forgotten and left out. He was overshadowed in everything and nothing about that would change.
Since that day when France had said his goodbye his life had changed and he had become a whispered voice in the backdrop, a drowned out existence under England’s care.
He didn’t blame England. After all, who could compare to a brother that was everything he wasn’t? America. Always America, always the one that England liked best, always the one that was the most athletic, the most outgoing, the forerunner of the New World. America and his bright smile, America and his strength, America and the pride that was so clear in England’s eyes. He was England’s everything, and it was a painfully obvious fact to the one that was left behind.
But Canada was okay with that, because-unlike his brother-he did not seek out the spotlight or vie for attention and affection. That, he had realized some time ago, was something given freely and without cohesion, and only then would it really be a more beautiful and meaningful thing. Like those early years with France, when for once he had been the one that was looked upon so brightly, Canada knew that only when love was shared freely would it truly be a liberating emotion. Trying to bind or chain down love would only wither and decay a sometimes turbulent emotion-it would only lead to heartbreak.
And even though France was now gone, Canada knew he had gained something in return. He was able to meet his brother for the first time, and despite his shortcomings and sometimes rude behavior, Canada loved America. As they grew older it was better, and America, though still selfish as he had been as a child with England’s attention, came to see him as more of a brother rather than a intruder on his relationship with England. Even if Canada did not shine in England’s sight, at least through America’s eyes he was a person worth being with. And while that brotherly love between them was not the same as the depth of France’s affection, Canada was grateful for the small place that America had allowed him despite the wholeness with which he shared with England.
And perhaps it was because of that knowledge, knowing the way in which England and America were so deeply interwoven, that Canada couldn’t believe the news that finally reached his doorstep. He had held Kimajiko to his chest, fingers clenched tightly, even as the messenger told him about what had happened in Lexington and then Concord.
It was not possible he told himself, there was no way anything could ever get between England and America. He knew them both well enough to know that they shared a bond far deeper than he had ever seen, one that he had only glimmered with France. But when talk spread throughout his territories it became an inescapable fact that this was indeed reality, and something had gone terribly wrong between America and England.
Almost over night it seemed as if everything had changed once again.
First there was fighting and now there was rebellion in America’s colonies. England had been driven from Concord, attacked and driven back through the dirt-covered roads to Boston, assaulted constantly by colonists that hid in the thick forests, tucked away in tree branches and dense cover. And then there was the battle at Bunker Hill, and even more casualties, more soldiers, more fighting. And it wasn’t until after that battle that word finally reached Canada through soldiers that were carrying messages into his territory. It seemed that England had sequestered an area in New York to battle against America and reclaim the colonies in rebellion, and finally word had been sent to him, the often forgotten brother who had been cut off from all the word of fighting by the distance between.
What was happening?
Canada didn’t know and it terrified him. What could have possibly of happened to cause this?
He sat down with a heavy sigh, letting Kumako climb out of his lap and tumble across the couch. The white bear looked at him with a cocked head, as if trying to consider the person before him and for even a moment Canada fumbled over the name of his constant companion. He was too nervous, too tense and it was far more than he could handle. He fumbled his fingers together in his lap, trying to reason with the information that had been gnawing at the back of his mind ever since he had heard word about this. None of these actions were like America, not the America he knew, not the America who would always garner for England’s attention and affection-if this was some cry for help or need from England then this was surely not the way to go about it. Even Canada had a hard time reasoning with that information and it only caused the creases in his forehead to furrow deeper in contemplation. Nothing surfaced, no startling revelation that would explain his brother’s actions.
Almost immediately he had penned a letter to America, hoping for some sort of explanation, but his hopes were quickly dashed when he received a reply in the mail. His brother’s response was short and curt:
I’m coming to speak with you. We’ll talk then.
Canada didn’t know if he should be surprised or terrified by this. The person he was hearing about in the papers was not the America he knew-even his letter lacked the usual carefree banter in which they normally spoke. Where had his brother gone?
And when America finally arrived at his door, a small group of militia following just behind the young colony’s horse, Canada knew he shouldn’t have been surprised at the change he saw. America looked tired, he looked worn, and it wasn’t just from the long ride into his northern colonies. There was a heavy weight on his slumped shoulders, and when they hugged Canada was surprised by how thin he felt in his arms.
“America,” he whispered, almost as if he couldn’t believe the person standing right before.
“Let’s go inside Canada,” his brother had said softly and together they walked into the house to talk privately.
America sat down heavily on the couch, running gloved fingers through his hair, and those dull blue irises looked at him through thick blinking lashes. “I guess you’ve heard, huh?”
He looked a bit better, Canada reasoned, once he was inside. “You’re fighting with England.”
“I think you’d call it more than fighting.” The look that reached America’s face made him…it made him look so different. He had never witnessed this type of anarchy within that blue gaze, like the churning of rapids, only stable within its instability.
Canada didn’t say anything and a thick silence stretched between them like layers of blankets, wavering over the thin balance between them, that intense gaze making Canada feel uncomfortable. He wanted to say something to ease the burden he saw resting on America’s shoulders, but he didn’t know what to say. He wanted answers, but that gaze made him afraid of the answers.
Finally, Canada sighed. “America, don’t get mad. I don’t want to argue with you, but I don’t even really understand why you and England are fighting. This doesn’t make sense to me.” Even if there were problems with the government, certainly it didn’t warrant this type of action.
America looked up from across the table and his visage softened, those blue eyes seeming to relax. Canada felt like he could breath again.
“Sorry, I guess…I just get upset when I think about it.” America looked away, staring at some object in the distance, unwilling to meet his brother’s own questioning gaze. It was almost as if America could see his own confliction in his gaze.
“But what are you going to do about it? England is understanding, but fighting him like this is going make him more upset.”
“So what? I don’t care. Let him get upset.”
“You don’t mean that.” Canada pointed out. “When this all blows over-“
“What do you mean ‘when this all blows over’?” America was looking at him with sharp eyes that caused Canada to freeze. They were so fierce that it sent a shiver down his spine. This side of America, this was a vicious and violent side. Was this the reaction and consequence of rebellion?
“Well, um, I mean, this isn’t going to go on forever…eventually England will forgive-“
“I don’t want forgiveness from him.” America interrupted, his arms slowly unfolding from across his chest as he leaned forward. “What? You think I need him?”
Canada’s eyebrows rose at that and the implication behind said words.
“Haven’t you even been listening to what my people are saying?”
“You mean that stuff in those pamphlets by that guy…” Canada had a very dreadful feeling swelling up in the back of his mind, and it stayed there and in the pit of his stomach where it twisted and churned. This could be very bad. Did America even understand what he was talking about?
“Thomas Paine.”
“Yeah, him.” Canada sighed. “America, you can’t be serious? This is England we’re talking about here.” America was the favorite, the golden child, the one that England loved the most. “England must be so worried.”
America’s gaze clouded. “England doesn’t care,” was his snapped response. “I’m through with England.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yes I do!” America said heatedly. “I came here because I want you to join me. We can be free, together. We don’t need England anymore. We can take care of ourselves and…”
The disapproval reading in Canada’s face was enough for America to let his words trail off.
He hung his head. “You won’t…will you?”
Canada licked his lips in thought. This was so strange, seeing America like this. He had always been so attached to England, so willing to do whatever he wanted, but here and now he had expressed nothing but aggression against their provider. “I like England, America. Even though France is gone…” He said, a slight quiver to his whispery voice. “And I miss France…but England has been good to me too. He’s been better than good to you.”
“You mean unjust taxing and killing people is good? What rock are you living under Canada? Can’t you see that he’s gone too far? We have to rebel against him and show him-“
“Don’t talk like that America.” Canada said, cutting him off with words sharp enough to make America listen. “You didn’t even tell me you were doing this. You planned all of this, acted against England, and not even once did you mention it to me. How do you think that made me feel? I’m your brother and I was left out. I only found out about it after everything was over with and now you’re asking me to join you?”
“I…I didn’t…”
“You didn’t think about me. You never do.” Canada finished for him.
America looked at him for several long moments. “Fine, then you don’t need to join me. It’s not like I need your help anyway. I can do this all on my own but I thought I’d offer to give you some protection from England.” He started to get up.
“America, don’t go. Won’t you even listen?”
“I’ve heard enough. I came to ask you something and I got your answer. If you want to stay with England then stay with him. See if I care what you do!”
Canada scrambled to his feet as America got up and started to leave. He reached out, grabbing his brother’s arm and forced him to stop. “America, please, if you do this you’re going to get hurt. Forget that this is an insane idea, remember just who England is. He’s too strong, too power. You’ll be crushed.” And it will hurt, Canada thought, just like it hurt when France left. Even in the shadows Canada didn’t want his brother to endure those suffocating feelings.
America wouldn’t turn to look at his brother, his eyes fixated on the doorway, like he was just barely keeping himself from yanking his arm away and bolting from the room. “I don’t care.” He mumbled, and this time he did yank his arm away but made no move to leave. “I have help.”
“What do you mean?” Canada asked, his lips frowning in trepidation.
“France is going to help me.”
Canada felt his breath hitch in his chest. “F-france?” When America nodded his head, Canada brought his hands to his face, covering his cowering lips. “America…this…this is going to cause a world war.”
“If…” America’s words were slow, softly whispered syllables. “If that’s what it takes to make England see me and acknowledge me…then that’s what will have to happen.”
This was not America.
Canada watched the person before him; the clenched jaw, the fingers grasp tightly into a fist, the slight quiver in those broad shoulders that Canada thought he might be imaging. “You can’t…” Canada said in a hushed whisper.
“What?” Finally America turned his head ever-so-slightly and looked at his brother.
“You can’t do this.” Canada repeated, louder this time. “Leave France out of this-anyone, just not France. You know how he and England fight. If you do this-if you side with France-you know he’ll never forgive you, don’t you? Never, never will he forgive you.” He repeated it, making sure it went straight through his brother’s thick head. “And France…” Canada’s chest heaved in a sigh. “I don’t want him…to get hurt…can’t you just leave him out of this?” Even in his abandonment, Canada couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the defeat in France’s face if he once again lost to England.
America bit his lower lip in thought, and his eyes clouded over with a haze that marred that beautiful blue sky reflected in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Canada.” A sigh escaped between those lips that parted in anguish. “I have to do this.” And then, as if he could not stand the look of welling heartbreak on Canada’s face, he walked toward the door.
But anger was quickly filling the hurt and worry that toppled Canada’s being as America stalked away. How dare America think so selfishly, how dare he involve other people in his fight between England? France, the one person that always harbored Canada’s respect-Canada’s love-and America could so easily use him to gain some fleeting notion of independence from the one person who Canada could scarcely see him without. And now he was leaving, without a true explanation, without really saying anything other than join me or don’t.
Canada was furious.
The moment of hesitation was swift, and soon Canada was after his brother, running through the house with feet echoing loudly on the wooden floors. He flung open the front door, and America was standing there, getting ready to mount his horse, eyes looking up in confusion as Canada ran right for him. America didn’t have time to react before Canada tackled him to the ground.
“Damn you, damn you and your selfish ways!” Canada screamed at the top of his lungs, grabbing onto the folds of America’s clothes, straddling him down to the ground and pounding his body up and down against the earth. “Don’t you ever think about anyone but yourself? Can’t you leave France out of this? Can’t you just make up with England? I know you love him so why are you pushing him away, y-you idiot!”
America could only stare up at him with widened blue eyes, even as the militia that had accompanied him yanked Canada off his body and pulled him away. Canada tried to get free, and he was grumbling and kicking out his legs, just wanting to hit America, just wanting to bring him back to reality.
“Let him go,” America whispered, propping himself up on his elbows, looking at how his brother sat slouched on the dirt-covered ground, face cradled in his hands.
Canada sobbed, chest heaving. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to say, but all he could think about was how stupid America was being and how blind he was to the consequences of his actions. He didn’t understand, he didn’t know how badly this could hurt. “You idiot,” he mumbled indiscernibly. “I hate you…I hate you for this. I don’t want anything to do with you.” He didn’t know if he said those words out of spite or out of angry, if they were induced by his worry for France or something else that elusively swayed out of his grasp. He just knew, in this moment, that America was the last person he wanted to see.
He heard the shift of movement, and then felt a hovering presence over his body. A hand reached down and ran through his wavy hair, a hand he knew very well. America leaned down next to him and embraced him in a tight hug that caused his shoulders to shiver and shake. “I’m sorry but I have to do it. I wish you could understand…” his brother whispered, words choked back and strangled. America held on for only a moment longer before he slowly released his grip and stood.
Canada didn’t even bother looking up nor moving, not until he heard the horses moving and the echoed beat of their hooves were lost in the distance.
To him, the real America had left a long time ago.
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The sun’s solace bathed the garden patio in brimming light. The lush and manicured gardens stretched out from the patio view, an orchid of brightly colored flowers blossoming from the depth of greenery traversed by stone pathways. In the distance the light sound of bubbling streams filtered through the warm air, a hidden fountain in the alcove of trimmed bushes hidden just out of sight as a picturesque spot for a lovers’ tryst.
It was a beautiful day in Madrid.
Spain stretched his arms out above his head, neck craning to look out into that manicured lawn at the person that lay sprawled out on the green grass. A smile crept into the corner of his eyes, a shining testament of content within those brown irises and the obvious devotion to that person.
“Is that your charge?”
Spain turned toward the sound of the voice and the Frenchman whom had spoken. Always immaculately dressed in shades of lavender and blues, France leaned against the stone railing of the patio, arms loosely crossed over his chest, wavy hair tied back from his face with a ponytail at the base of his neck. “You mean Romano? He’s taking a siesta.” Spain explained as his arms dropped to his side.
And indeed, the brown-haired Italian was snoozing on one of the hilled slopes, arms cupped back behind his head. There was a basket next to him, half-eaten tomatoes filling the confines. His curl bounced like a booey in the water with the slightest shift of a breeze, but the Italian seemed oblivious to all else but the warmth of the sun and the dreams which whisked away his carefree thoughts.
Spain leaned his elbow forward on the railing, eyes glancing off into the distance and the city of Madrid that loomed beyond the walls of his home. Though France had only arrived a short while ago, Spain was merely waiting for the other man to bring up the exact reason for his visit. He had more than a sneaking suspicion as to the course of dialogue that was to take place, and Spain was not sure if he would be inclined to like the testaments that were to be shared. “You don’t usually come down this far south without anything to gain.” He coaxed, still staring into the distance.
“Mon cher, you read me so well.” France stepped closer until they were standing shoulder to shoulder, both eyes staring out into the distance. “Madrid is as beautiful as always, my lovely Spain.” The other nation spoke. “I would love to visit these gorgeous streets and the beautiful exotic women that walk them, but unfortunately I come in regards to a matter much less pleasant. My visit is in regards to England.”
Darkness clouded Spain’s vision at the mention of the head of the British Empire. Bitterness and anger welled from within his torso, and Spain could not hold back the bite in his voice. “England,” he spat with rolling syllables. “What about him?” He held little love for the island nation, not after the war and his subsequent loss of his colonies which had provided him with so much until they had been lost to British rule.
A smirk danced on France’s lips, cunning and calculated. “I assume you’ve heard about the happenings in the New World?”
“Vaguely,” Spain said, his voice softened and now tipped with curiosity.
“America is declaring independence.”
Spain’s brown eyes widened, his jaw slackening. “Little America? Independent?” Word of the stifle between England and America had been traveling for some time now, but independence…that was a new word that Spain had yet to hear. No doubt England would be going to great lengths to make sure it stayed that way, but France had always been the type to find gossip and news that others would not otherwise hear.
“He’s not little anymore.” France pointed out as he leaned back against the ledge, elbows resting on the solid stone. “In fact, he’s quite serious.” He watched Spain closely, surveying the marked expressions. “He’s asked for my help.”
Caution clouded Spain’s vision, just as he expected France had not come without a purpose.
France straightened up, stepping closer to the Spaniard and leaning close, words laced with delicate action and sweet whispers of nothing. “What do you say, mon cher? Ready for revenge?” France pulled back, eyes slightly narrowed, and adjusted the folds of his frilled blouse. “I think it is time that England’s delusions of grandeur are brought down.”
Spain looked at him pensively, and France could see the ideas and possibility clicking and turning together. “This can’t just be about England. War again, against his strength?” There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that with England’s control and possessions in so many places-especially America-made him a force not to be fought with lightly.
“Ah-I suppose I have my own failing that I wish to pay back for.”
“You mean Canada?”
The Frenchman’s eyes closed ever-so-slightly, and the tension in his shoulders were almost noticeably as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “You may say that…”
“I heard you were so upset when he was taken from you all those years ago.” Spain continued, eyebrows inclined upward. “Everyone heard about the fuss you made-getting kicked out of bars in Paris, making scenes. It hurt didn’t it?”
France’s eyes narrowed seriously. “Would you feel any differently if Romano was taken from you?”
Spain’s brown eyes glanced back to where the Italian was still dozing. He shrugged his shoulders, arms raised in giving. “You’re right.”
“Then you understand how important this is.” France continued. “Without America he would be nothing. He has relied too heavily on that young boy. It will be his undoing.” France tapped his chin and the light stubble. “And losing his own charge, someone he so obviously loves…”
“He will be broken into pieces.” Spain continued for him.
“Exactly,” France said with a smirk.
“And about losing my colonies in America…”
“If you want them back then I wouldn’t expect it.” France said. “But we can certainly punish the one responsible for taking them away. It is time for the British Empire to be toppled.”
Spain sighed, hands on his hips. “This all sounds good, but its not enough of a reason to convince me about America-“
“I’ve sent America a wonderful little package filled with my love and devotion.” France interrupted, a grin curling the corner of his lips. His chin inclined ever-so-slightly and there was a knowing look in his eyes, like he had just pulled out an ace. “And I believe it will be more than enough to convince you.”
Spain’s brown eyes squinted as he looked at him with both a hint of curiosity and caution. “You…you didn’t?” Spain’s jaw slackened as the Frenchman nodded his head. Unbelievable! Spain could only lean back and let out a bellow of laughter. “That poor kid! Though I suppose it will be good for him.” A grin spread across Spain’s lips. “I might have to join you after all, France. If you could get him to go to the New World then maybe taking down England isn’t such a remote possibility.”
France smirked, obviously pleased. “My thoughts exactly.”
“Damnit Spain, why are you so loud?” Came a sleepy voice from the pathway leading to the garden.
Both Spain and France turned to look as Romano trudged into view. Rubbings his eyes sleepily and with a basket cradled against his side, the Italian muttered underneath his breath. “Spain…” He began, but his words trailed off when he noticed France, a yelp escaping between pursed lips and the basket falling to the ground, contents spilling all over the floor. He was next to Spain’s side in an instant, cowering behind the other nation, fingers gripped in the folds of Spain’s shirt. “W-why is that France bastard here?”
Spain laughed, reaching around to pat the Southern Italian on the head even as he clung desperately to his clothes. “It’s okay, Romano. France was just here to share some interesting information.”
Though Romano’s grip didn’t relax, his head popped out over Spain’s side. “What can this bastard tell that’s worth it?”
“Ah,” Spain began, with a small smile. “That it may just be worth taking a trip to the New World soon.”
France raised a single eyebrow, lips forming a small smile. “Then you will go?”
Spain smirked. “Count me in. I’m ready for some payback.”
Wearily, Romano looked between them. “You are both stupid bastards,” he mumbled from his cowering stance.
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America frowned as he adjusted the thick layers of his clothing, fumbling a bit nervously at the vest and tie.
“Are you okay?” Frederick asked from beside him.
He wasn’t fine at all, he was nervous as hell, but he couldn’t say that aloud. “I’m great,” he mumbled instead. “A little nervous I guess.”
“This is a very important day, America.” Frederick reminded America.
He didn’t need to be told twice, he knew well enough on his own but these last few weeks had been so trying that he found himself struggling just to make it through the day. His fight with Canada had left him disheartened and saddened, and since Bunker Hill there had been endless skirmishes with the redcoats. And America hadn’t seen nor heard from England since that day on the bridge in his fight for Concord, something which brought an unexpected amount of anxiety to his being. He had a hard time judging whether it was a good or a bad thing, but in the end he knew it was for the best. He couldn’t allow England to muddle his thoughts, not on this important date, not when he was about to take an important step toward the future.
Today, on July 4th 1776, he was going to celebrate his first birthday.
He stood in front of the large oak doors, the light murmurs of voices just reaching through the sealed entrance way. Frederick was there, but he was silent beside him, a sole companion on this day that was forever going to change his life.
He wished…he wished Canada was here, that someone was here that he could share this with, that would understand how much meaning was held on this day.
The doors were opened and a man waved him inside.
America gulped, giving a long glance to Frederick.
Frederick clapped him on the shoulder and smiled reassuringly. “Good luck, America, this is a new beginning for you.”
America nodded and tentatively stepped forward. The room he entered was empty but he could hear voices from the adjourning room. The door closed silently behind him.
“Right through that doorway,” the man said and nodded his head in the direction of the voices.
The person was gone beside him a moment later but America scarcely noticed. He felt anxiety welling in the pit of his stomach like a tightening fist that bombarded him from within. He was nauseous, he was sweating, and he was utterly exhilarated. This was it, this was really it. He would no longer be a part of the British Empire; he would be his own nation and his own people.
It was both terrifying and exciting at the same moment.
He moved toward the voices.
The room was warm and brightly lit with candles, and the men huddled around the large wooden table in the center of the room. America stood in the back of the room, widened blue eyes forgetting all the worry and anxiety the moment his eyes laid down on the piece of parchment that lay spread across the table. He felt his breath hitch in his chest even as he watched the way in which those men spoke to one another, the murmured whispers and the voices that rose above the din. Without a doubt, without any hesitation, America knew he was witnessing a new beginning of not only his people but also himself.
He wanted to step forward but he knew he couldn’t. Being here, when this was being done, when he was being liberated was an honor itself, but he could not interrupt his people who were making this possible. This was their moment as well, their time to shine.
This was really going to happen, he thought, he was no longer going to be a colony. He would no longer belong to the British Empire or be a part of England himself, he would be his own person, an entity entirely itself and not nestled within the whim of another. The thought was both warming and fleeting, and he felt a stirring within the depths of his being that churned with mixed emotion.
How would it feel…to no longer be a part of England?
Would everything change or would he feel the same? He was still so fledging and young, he didn’t have the experience of hundreds of years to back these tumultuous emotions that bombarded his mind. But he did know something, he knew that even though there was fear and hesitation, this was something he yearned for. This was something he wanted despite all the possible changes this may mean, no matter how hard it might be to let go of this one piece that had bound him to England.
Bound…such a strange word. Never had he thought of his relationship with England as binding, never until these last few years when so much had come to pass between them-when he had changed and found an image of himself. But was bound the right word to use? No, he had never been bound in the physical sense. Laws were binding, but he had broken through those, words were binding and while sometimes they seemed to strangle him, he was here and he had proven that England’s words could not hold him. Even so, even with that knowledge, he felt a tug still toward that one single person that had been such a focus in his live. America did not doubt that the strings that still held him fast to England were from his heart, because even after all of that had happened to their relationship, America knew he would always be bound to England in both heart and soul. It was the one way in which England would always bind him.
He blinked back the tears that threatened to escape from between fluttering eyelashes as the first person stepped forward to sign. He recognized the imposing figure of John Adams, who had been so vocal in those early days of riot, as the quill was dipped into ink.
For a moment fear seized him, and he gripped at the edges of his coat so tightly that he felt the rush of blood trying to desperately pump pass his steeled fists. It was warm, and America felt the light slick of perspiration against the collar of his shirt, and it made him suddenly wonder if these clothes were too tight, too formal even for an occasion such as this.
Why was he so afraid? Was it…because of England?
This truly would be the end. The final end. Even if England tore this declaration to pieces it would forever be engraved into his heart, into the hearts’ of his people, and that was something which England would never be able to touch. Forget oppression, forget rebellion, this was a new beginning. It was change, it was the last lingering remnants of a pact that had gone wrong, that had become bloated and bruised, and which could no longer sustain the needs he felt as both a country and a person. The Empire would not give them what they needed and nor could England return his love like he wanted.
Separation was inevitable.
It was a cold and hard fact. And even in the fear of losing the final linger tethers of his heart, America knew this was the right course of action. Like the warmth that seemed to spread through his body, like the arid abandonment of his emotions that now seemed so far away, this time and place seemed so gentle and welcoming in a way that England’s arms had never felt.
And with each stroke of the ink quill he felt it against his skin, and it was a tepid and rushed feeling, like waves lapping over his skin on a hot summer day. It was warm, it was cozy, and it was so beautiful that America lost his breath. He reached up a hand to his chest, and felt the thumping of his heart beating so loud that it reverberated in the hollows of his ears.
When the last name was signed he knew that he would never be the same.
It was as if that moment had finalized some meticulous change in himself, in his country and his people. It was something that would continue to grow and swell higher and higher as this document was distributed out to the people, and word spread beyond these lands, and to the rest of the world. And within those moments this soaring feel of flight would grow stronger and more powerful until America would never want to descend from the depth of these feelings, never want to allow them to be stripped away.
For a moment America stood, with complete stillness, and let the feelings absorb him, quite sure that he would never feel more wholly wonderful than this single time and place.
He felt…such liberation.
He was so happy he could have wept.
A tap on his shoulder woke him from his mesmerized state.
“America, there’s someone in the parlor to see you.” The woman said gently, a whisper just glancing off his ear.
The signing was complete and the men congratulated each other as the final signature was added. On this day he was born again. No longer a colony…he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around those words.
He nodded to the woman. “Okay, thanks.”
He felt both dizzy and lightheaded as he left the room. He wasn’t even quite sure how his feet managed to put one in front of the other, or how he even managed to stay upright. He was so full...just so full of emotion that his mind could not quite compute anything other than unadulterated happiness.
America walked to the small room near the doorway to find a man sitting in the parlor, booted feet propped up on the table, body slouched down in a plush armchair. Even from a distance he could see the expensive fabric of the thick long coat he wore, the embellishments of gold and ribbon. His white pants were spotless, the knee high boots expensive Italian leather. He didn’t recognize him, not that he could see the face very well with the feather-capped tri-horn hat that rested low on his down-turned face.
Something about this man seemed to wake America from his dazed state. There was something different about him.
“You America?” The man asked, his voice gruff, his facing never turning to glance at him even as he stepped into the room. America was surprised he even heard him, he looked as if he had been sleeping.
“Um, yeah.” He began tentatively, taking a step forward, only a few feet separating them. America felt a sudden sense of uneasy, like the person before him was strong and much more dangerous than appearances allowed. “I’m America. Who are you?”
Slowly the head inclined upward and a pair of narrowed red eyes looked up at him from under the brim of the hat. “France sent me to whip you and your army into shape.”
His lips twisted in a grin. “Name’s Prussia.”
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- American soldiers went to Canada to try and liberate them from British soldiers but the Canadians did not want to get involved, they rather liked the protection of the British Empire
- The British prepared for war with the intention of making NY their headquarters in order to divide the colonies in two so that they could not aid each other
- The idea of independence did not come to the general public until Thomas Paine's Common Sense was published
- France agreed to join the war and aid America, with the intention of bringing Spain into the alliance
- Prussia's presence is based off of Friedrich von Steuben, a Prussian soldier, who traveled to Paris and was endorsed by the French for service in training American soldiers.