Give Them Hope
Title: Give Them Hope
Character(s): America, Harvey Milk, slight England and other historical figures. No real parings, America/Milk and very slight America -->England if you squint.
Rating: PG, maybe PG-13
Summary: De-anon from the kink meme. OP wanted America and his interactions with Harvey Milk, a prominent figure in the gay rights movement in America, and his reaction to his assassination. Basically, America and his hopes and dreams, and his gay rights movement. :D
America, for the longest time, has been different, and not just in his immortality and super strength. No, he’s been different in something else, something deep-rooted and emotional, something that, if it got out, would have made him an outcast in society, spit on and beaten and hated.
It’s a painful thought, for a nation, that their people may hate them for simply being them.
The first time he was told of his… Abnormalities, was when he was just a child, under the care of England. There had been a boy, young and strong and sturdy, the pride of a coastal New England down, so similar to others, such a distant blur in his memories that he can’t recall the name. The boy wasn’t perfect, maybe his eyebrows were a little too thick, maybe he had a foul temper and a fouler mouth, but there was something deep inside the young colony that had felt warm at the sight of him.
The two had gotten along; America’s charm and charisma had made sure of that, and as the relationship progressed, America started to have these thoughts. Thoughts of kisses and blushes, of tongues and teeth and fingers twisting together the way young newlyweds’ did. It was strange, surreal, but not unpleasant, and these thoughts certainly seemed normal enough. Maybe, their hugs lasted a little bit longer then they should have. Maybe, America (Alfred to the boy) took an opportunity to brush their hands here, or lean in close there.
And of course, being absolutely devoted to England at the time, America had excitedly curled up in his lap on his next visit and told him everything.
The poor boy, so caught up in his glee, had not been prepared for the rough way his shoulders had been grabbed and squeezed, the way England had shaken his small body until his teeth rattled and his eyes filled with tears and he was crying and apologizing I’msorryI’msorryI’msorrywhatdidIdo?
Then, only confusing America further, England had pulled him close and held him, a warm comfort against his still trembling body. Once the moment had passed and the house dissolved into silence, broken only by their labored breathing, America had timidly apologized once more, at that time only wanting to please his dear guardian.
That’s when it was first explained to America - how abnormal his feelings were, how different, and England had cradled him and rocked him to sleep, saying you’re not wrong, America, my dear America, there’s nothing wrong with you and those like us know that. Others, however, they don’t, and if they find out, they’ll do horrible things to you without a second thought. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt, so we can’t tell anyone, hush, boy, it’s our secret. And then, when the empire had thought his colony was sleeping, he’d let out a sigh, small and brokenly weak, so unlike him. Believe me, I know this from experience.
And so America dealt with himself. Whenever he would feel that warm, pleasant twinge in his stomach he would turn and hide, desperate not to be seen or heard as he tried to banish such wrong, sinful thoughts from his head.
Time went, revolution happened and America wondered why he felt his heart tearing out of his chest at England’s furious, devastated face. His capitol burned, his cities thrived, people lived and died and tried to tear him apart from the inside. He struck gold, the slaves were free, he built factories and machines and cars and felt himself expand, from sea to shining sea, growing and thriving and taking in the life that radiated from his lands.
There were women, too. Soft hands and lips, sharper curves and curls, and he remembered every encounter with precision. Somehow he preferred them, as well, because with each touch and layer of clothing removed, there was only the thrill of excitement at how sordid their actions were, not the ugly pricks of guilt, equal parts from betraying England, ignoring his warning, and from acting on these abnormal urges of his. There were women, but there were also men.
All of his encounters were kept in secret, hidden in the dark shadows, up through the beginning of the twentieth century.
And then came the Great War, the bombs and bullets and no one had seen anything like this before, not this level of death and destruction, not the bodies strewn for miles and miles and the lives uprooted, shifted, the identities found amidst the chaos of battle.
He hadn’t seen England, really seen England in nearly a hundred years, having hidden himself from Europe and their wars, their troubles. He hadn’t seen him since he was young, and so he was unprepared for that horrible, familiar feeling in his stomach, the jittery butterflies and oh god, he likes him…
And there was guilt, of course there was guilt, but there was also something else. Amidst the horrors of the war came a sort of a shift, his young men and women noticing each other in ways that wouldn’t be considered normal previously… And still aren’t. But after the War, after the upheavals and changes caused, change could be felt like something tangible in the air.
America started to think that, maybe, just maybe, those butterflies in his stomach at England’s eyes, his grin, his scowl, might not be as terrible as before.
It started small, a society in Chicago, a few more opened bars… Then the depression swept in and World War II swept the depression away, and America was (is) thriving and glowing and changing in so many ways. There were (are) nuclear weapons, communism, new threats and enemies and so many more people, of all races and religions, thinking freely and differently and bringing new ideas.
Minorities, oppressed and discriminated against, starting to gain a voice and realizing I don’t have to take this. America basks in this, in the thoughts and ideas bubbling up, because they’re all his citizens, from the Harvard educated white golden-boy, to the young black child, going to a segregated school but still soaking up ever scrap of precious knowledge he can, to the gay teen, terrified to come out and be who he truly is.
They’re all his citizens; he loves them all, and he wishes that they would love him the same, despite his differences, despite his abnormality, but there’s still a barrier there, a wall, making each kiss he exchanges with another man feel scalding hot from guilt.
The 1960s made him feel like an Atom bomb had gone off; they left him breathless, ears ringing and eyes shining. Protests, scores of them, from sea to shining sea. Rights for African Americans, rights for women, rights for all minorities and youth and the people need a voice, they can’t just let a bunch of stuffy, conservative old men make their decisions, send their young men to war…
And there was another movement, rights for homosexuals, for people like him. They march, they riot, they won’t be stamped out, because they are American citizens, they have rights and wants and they’re normal. And one night in 1969, America himself, America the nation, felt a definitive shift. Different America, suddenly not so different anymore.
It’s in the midst of these changes and shifts and I’m normal, England, I think these feelings might actually be normal, that America meets him.
He’s nothing special to look at, this man. Average height, average face. Average eyebrows. At first glance, America thinks he’s just another citizen, and he pays the man’s little camera store in San Francisco no heed. Average man, average life.
Still, though, there’s something about him, and he feels his feet move and his lips part to ask “I, uh… What’s your name?”
His name is Milk, Harvey Milk, born on Long Island, Jewish, over forty years old. America knows his name, just as he knows the names of every one of his citizens, but he still asks so as not to feel creepy when they see each other again, because America wants to see him again. So he follows him, finds out about him, hears his words and speeches and lets a few years float by, watching as he grows in strength and popularity.
They talk. They meet on the streets a few times and America wants to help him, wants the world to know of him. Milk smiles at him and pats his shoulder, because he looks young, no more then twenty, and they talk. They discuss America (Alfred, to Milk) and his life and his loves and he spills that there was always someone, ever since he was young, but things went bad and Milk nods and tells of his own loves and losses. They’re friends, and America wants to help.
Milk becomes mayor of his street, becomes famous and opposed. People try to stifle his message and singers and preachers and all manner of Americans try, and sometimes succeed, to pass bills and stop their differences from growing, becoming accepted. There’s Anita Bryant and John Briggs, rushing from coast to coast to preach against homosexuality, and that burns, deep in America’s bones and heart. Harvey Milk is optimistic, and tells America that he’s running for city supervisor.
The first openly gay man elected to public office in America. It will be a tough election and America is worried, but Harvey is not. He just smiles and gives speeches, presses a hand on his shoulder and assures him that everything will be fine. There are those butterflies again, insistent and unrelenting, making his insides turn to mush and words die on his lips. America is not optimistic.
America is not optimistic, and when Harvey Milk wins the election, he feels as though someone has filled a balloon of pure light in his chest, radiating hope and love and he won oh god he won things are going to change I like boys I like him I like England oh beautiful, for spacious skies, o’er amber waves of grain. He’s singing at the top of his lungs, shouting his glee to the streets, tears of jubilation streaming down his face. The next day, he sees newly-elected city supervisor Harvey Milk, pulls him into a bruising hug, and tries not to cry.
Weeks pass with new decrees and bills and ideas, America staying in San Francisco, communicating with his people, soaking in their dreams and lives and hopes, not talking to his boss.
He had stumbled into his boss’s office in D.C., eyes wild and bright and joyful, voice choked up with laughter, mumbling Boss, Boss, I gotta tell you, I’m gay well no I’m not gay I like boys but I also like girls, oh god, isn’t everything wonderful? His boss had looked at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish, and sighed, rubbing at his wrinkled old temples with wrinkled old hands, muttering that all these changes aren’t good for him, he shouldn’t say something so immoral.
Not talking to his boss, but he honestly doesn’t care, because he has Harvey Milk and Milk is going to change the world, starting right here in California and spreading it across all fifty states, through his limbs and veins like liquid fire. It is wonderful, that so many people without a voice are now gaining one, men and women, black and white, even gray, like Tony, Jewish and Christian and Muslim, gay and straight, people, all his citizens, all precious and dear and normal.
And there is opposition, there is Anita Bryant and John Briggs leading the crusade against them, there’s Proposition 6, trying to ban all gay and accepting of those who are gay teachers from elementary schools, to keep them away from children, saying that they’re perverts and pedophiles and it’s November 7, 1978, they’re out of Vietnam, they’re thriving and growing and living, all people from all walks of life and California, America, can’t pass something like that, it can’t, he can’t-
By nearly a million people, a million American citizens in the state of California, the Proposition fails. Gay teachers can continue to teach, as can their friends and family and America is drunk with joy, feeling the jubilation of his people coursing through him, fueling his energy and he wants to scream, shout his bottled-up joy to skies as vast and endless as his love for his people.
He sees Harvey Milk after, about to give a speech, and he shuffles forward, face flushed and chest heaving as he gulps in the exhilaration from the air. The man stares at him for a moment, then laughs, high and clear and genuinely joyful. “You look happy. Don’t break my back this time, please.”
America smiles and slurs, drunk on his feelings. He wants to congratulate the man, to clap him on the back and tell him that he’s so happy, so proud, so glad to have met him. What he says, is: “I’m different.”
Milk looks at him, eyebrows quirked in confusion. “What?”
“’M not normal. I’m different.” he babbles on, feeling like a shy schoolgirl spilling a secret that he shouldn’t have told.
Milk looks at him, looks into his eyes, and America feels himself melt. “Alfred, you are normal. There is nothing wrong, or abnormal, about what you feel, dammit, and if you haven’t gotten that yet then-”
“No, no, I know that’s normal, but I’m not normal because, well…” he trails off and nibbles at his lip, making the plump skin sting. “I’m America. As in, the United States of. That’s me, and I… Thank you.” He sighs. “Thank you, the nation of America thanks you and thinks you are a godsend. You’re… You’re a hero, man.”
Harvey smiles, wise beyond his years, a hint of a smirk playing behind his lips. “I know, knew, who you were, America. I... Consider it a hunch.” A wink and a smirk and America is breathless as Harvey ascends to the stage, feeling dumbstruck and elated at the same time, the two colliding to form a twister in his body.
"On this anniversary of Stonewall, I ask my gay sisters and brothers to make the commitment to fight. For themselves, for their freedom, for their country ... We will not win our rights by staying quietly in our closets... We are coming out to fight the lies, the myths, the distortions. We are coming out to tell the truths about gays, for I am tired of the conspiracy of silence, so I'm going to talk about it. And I want you to talk about it. You must come out. Come out to your parents, your relatives."
Exactly twenty days later, November 27, 1978, America is sitting with England in a nice San Francisco café, sipping coffee and listening to the other rant about disgusting American coffee and bloody hills, too damn steep and god, this state is so cramped it’s ridiculous.
America listens, brushing his hand over England’s (by accident, of course), watching his face flush red like Christmas lights, noting the curve of his cheekbones and the subtle way his collarbone pokes out from behind his shirt, his shaggy blonde hair, and oh god, those eyebrows… They’re ungodly, and actually quite attractive, when scrunched together as England gets more and more flustered.
They talk, of civil rights and protests, of punk rock and music, of changes and wonders and the sky and sea, stretching on for miles and miles. America thinks of Harvey Milk, changing the world one state at a time, how much he’ll accomplish when he’s through, what his next boss will think of him when they meet, whether he’ll be okay with Alfred’s sexuality and-
Oh. Oh, what was that? An uncomfortable jolt in his heart, making it stutter and falter for a moment, and England is looking at him with badly masked concern, but he brushes it off, it wasn’t that bad, probably the death of a mayor or a city official, which is terrible, but at least it wasn’t the preside-
America collapses, gasping for breath and clutching his chest, nails digging in to the skin so hard through his shirt that they leave red welts, that the threads of the fabric start to tear, because someone died, someone important, oh god who who who what’s going on it hasn’t hurt this much since Kennedy, I can’t breathe, please someone help.
England’s shouting, but not to call 911, asking and pleading for the president, is he alive, god you bastards, answer me. America’s heart splutters and spits, but then starts up again, pumping desperately needed blood all throughout his body, waking up his veins and allowing him to take in deep gulps of air, sucking in the pure life from all around him. Life, tainted with death. Something’s wrong, horribly, terribly wrong.
It’s not till later when he gets the news, hears the whispers and voices and the candlelit vigils, and feels his whole being crumble into ruin. In his mind, the streets of New York, of Philadelphia, of Los Angeles and New Orleans and San Francisco are all in ruin, concrete and steel strewn everywhere, Lady Liberty cracked and crumbled in the waters of the Hudson.
Harvey Milk, so full of hope, so strong and smiling in the face of adversity, lies dead on the floor of City Hall, along with mayor. Shot, five times, by a former colleague.
America feels his heart breaking in two, and allows himself to be taken into England’s arms, to be held and cuddled and clings to the former empire, shoulders shaking as he sobs. All his hopes, his dreams, his goals and he’s not normal yes he is he’s not, all stamped out, silenced by a bullet.
His murderer is put on trial, sentenced for voluntary manslaughter, not murder, sentence for seven years, most likely out in five. There are protests, riots, people shouting and crying and this isn’t fair, Harvey, dear, dead Harvey, I couldn’t protect you I’m a hero I should have make sure no one hurt you I’m sorry. He’s dead, and America cannot comprehend that. It seems like such a short time ago he was standing at a podium, giving speeches and promising hope for everyone, all men and women.
"All men are created equal, all men. No matter how hard you try, you can never erase those words."
And so America picks up a candle and a bottle of beer, lifting the bottle to his lips, tasting the sour alcohol like liquid fire down his throat, and feeling the candle’s wax drip down his fingers, hot and sticky on his sweaty skin. He’ll drink to Milk, to his life and triumphs and the hope he brought to a small, insignificant street in San Francisco, and to one nation, just beginning to find himself in the world.
He’ll drink, he’ll weep, but he won’t let Harvey Milk die in vain. America clutches the candle, dripping wax, reminding him of his days as a colony where the only light he had was from the flickering flames, the stars and moon. He grips the thin white cylindar, and though Harvey Milk’s future was snuffed out, America grits his teeth and starts preparing for his.
It’s December 1978, and America has a long way to go.
-------
OP wanted an assassination to be represented by a heart attack type thing.
Notes:
Stonewall, 1969, referencing the Stonewall Riots in 1969. Police were raiding a gay bar, the patrons were all like "fuck that" and rioted. It brought the gay rights movement to national attention in America.
John Briggs and Anita Bryant were infamous for their opposition to the gay rights movement, and tried to shut it down with varying success in different states.
Harvey Milk was not, in fact, killed specifically because he was gay. He was killed because someone else who was on the town council with him, Dan White, who had resigned from the board, was pissed off at him for... other reasons that I don't remember cause it's almost midnight. However, his sentance was so leniant because most of the jury was more conservative and didn't support Milk. The guy killed two people and only went to jail for five years.
Also, I debated about the "it hasn't hurt this much since Kennedy" line, whether I should have changed it to "King," for Martin Luther King Jr, but I stuck with Kennedy. Maybe he meant Robert Kennedy.
Character(s): America, Harvey Milk, slight England and other historical figures. No real parings, America/Milk and very slight America -->England if you squint.
Rating: PG, maybe PG-13
Summary: De-anon from the kink meme. OP wanted America and his interactions with Harvey Milk, a prominent figure in the gay rights movement in America, and his reaction to his assassination. Basically, America and his hopes and dreams, and his gay rights movement. :D
America, for the longest time, has been different, and not just in his immortality and super strength. No, he’s been different in something else, something deep-rooted and emotional, something that, if it got out, would have made him an outcast in society, spit on and beaten and hated.
It’s a painful thought, for a nation, that their people may hate them for simply being them.
The first time he was told of his… Abnormalities, was when he was just a child, under the care of England. There had been a boy, young and strong and sturdy, the pride of a coastal New England down, so similar to others, such a distant blur in his memories that he can’t recall the name. The boy wasn’t perfect, maybe his eyebrows were a little too thick, maybe he had a foul temper and a fouler mouth, but there was something deep inside the young colony that had felt warm at the sight of him.
The two had gotten along; America’s charm and charisma had made sure of that, and as the relationship progressed, America started to have these thoughts. Thoughts of kisses and blushes, of tongues and teeth and fingers twisting together the way young newlyweds’ did. It was strange, surreal, but not unpleasant, and these thoughts certainly seemed normal enough. Maybe, their hugs lasted a little bit longer then they should have. Maybe, America (Alfred to the boy) took an opportunity to brush their hands here, or lean in close there.
And of course, being absolutely devoted to England at the time, America had excitedly curled up in his lap on his next visit and told him everything.
The poor boy, so caught up in his glee, had not been prepared for the rough way his shoulders had been grabbed and squeezed, the way England had shaken his small body until his teeth rattled and his eyes filled with tears and he was crying and apologizing I’msorryI’msorryI’msorrywhatdidIdo?
Then, only confusing America further, England had pulled him close and held him, a warm comfort against his still trembling body. Once the moment had passed and the house dissolved into silence, broken only by their labored breathing, America had timidly apologized once more, at that time only wanting to please his dear guardian.
That’s when it was first explained to America - how abnormal his feelings were, how different, and England had cradled him and rocked him to sleep, saying you’re not wrong, America, my dear America, there’s nothing wrong with you and those like us know that. Others, however, they don’t, and if they find out, they’ll do horrible things to you without a second thought. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt, so we can’t tell anyone, hush, boy, it’s our secret. And then, when the empire had thought his colony was sleeping, he’d let out a sigh, small and brokenly weak, so unlike him. Believe me, I know this from experience.
And so America dealt with himself. Whenever he would feel that warm, pleasant twinge in his stomach he would turn and hide, desperate not to be seen or heard as he tried to banish such wrong, sinful thoughts from his head.
Time went, revolution happened and America wondered why he felt his heart tearing out of his chest at England’s furious, devastated face. His capitol burned, his cities thrived, people lived and died and tried to tear him apart from the inside. He struck gold, the slaves were free, he built factories and machines and cars and felt himself expand, from sea to shining sea, growing and thriving and taking in the life that radiated from his lands.
There were women, too. Soft hands and lips, sharper curves and curls, and he remembered every encounter with precision. Somehow he preferred them, as well, because with each touch and layer of clothing removed, there was only the thrill of excitement at how sordid their actions were, not the ugly pricks of guilt, equal parts from betraying England, ignoring his warning, and from acting on these abnormal urges of his. There were women, but there were also men.
All of his encounters were kept in secret, hidden in the dark shadows, up through the beginning of the twentieth century.
And then came the Great War, the bombs and bullets and no one had seen anything like this before, not this level of death and destruction, not the bodies strewn for miles and miles and the lives uprooted, shifted, the identities found amidst the chaos of battle.
He hadn’t seen England, really seen England in nearly a hundred years, having hidden himself from Europe and their wars, their troubles. He hadn’t seen him since he was young, and so he was unprepared for that horrible, familiar feeling in his stomach, the jittery butterflies and oh god, he likes him…
And there was guilt, of course there was guilt, but there was also something else. Amidst the horrors of the war came a sort of a shift, his young men and women noticing each other in ways that wouldn’t be considered normal previously… And still aren’t. But after the War, after the upheavals and changes caused, change could be felt like something tangible in the air.
America started to think that, maybe, just maybe, those butterflies in his stomach at England’s eyes, his grin, his scowl, might not be as terrible as before.
It started small, a society in Chicago, a few more opened bars… Then the depression swept in and World War II swept the depression away, and America was (is) thriving and glowing and changing in so many ways. There were (are) nuclear weapons, communism, new threats and enemies and so many more people, of all races and religions, thinking freely and differently and bringing new ideas.
Minorities, oppressed and discriminated against, starting to gain a voice and realizing I don’t have to take this. America basks in this, in the thoughts and ideas bubbling up, because they’re all his citizens, from the Harvard educated white golden-boy, to the young black child, going to a segregated school but still soaking up ever scrap of precious knowledge he can, to the gay teen, terrified to come out and be who he truly is.
They’re all his citizens; he loves them all, and he wishes that they would love him the same, despite his differences, despite his abnormality, but there’s still a barrier there, a wall, making each kiss he exchanges with another man feel scalding hot from guilt.
The 1960s made him feel like an Atom bomb had gone off; they left him breathless, ears ringing and eyes shining. Protests, scores of them, from sea to shining sea. Rights for African Americans, rights for women, rights for all minorities and youth and the people need a voice, they can’t just let a bunch of stuffy, conservative old men make their decisions, send their young men to war…
And there was another movement, rights for homosexuals, for people like him. They march, they riot, they won’t be stamped out, because they are American citizens, they have rights and wants and they’re normal. And one night in 1969, America himself, America the nation, felt a definitive shift. Different America, suddenly not so different anymore.
It’s in the midst of these changes and shifts and I’m normal, England, I think these feelings might actually be normal, that America meets him.
He’s nothing special to look at, this man. Average height, average face. Average eyebrows. At first glance, America thinks he’s just another citizen, and he pays the man’s little camera store in San Francisco no heed. Average man, average life.
Still, though, there’s something about him, and he feels his feet move and his lips part to ask “I, uh… What’s your name?”
His name is Milk, Harvey Milk, born on Long Island, Jewish, over forty years old. America knows his name, just as he knows the names of every one of his citizens, but he still asks so as not to feel creepy when they see each other again, because America wants to see him again. So he follows him, finds out about him, hears his words and speeches and lets a few years float by, watching as he grows in strength and popularity.
They talk. They meet on the streets a few times and America wants to help him, wants the world to know of him. Milk smiles at him and pats his shoulder, because he looks young, no more then twenty, and they talk. They discuss America (Alfred, to Milk) and his life and his loves and he spills that there was always someone, ever since he was young, but things went bad and Milk nods and tells of his own loves and losses. They’re friends, and America wants to help.
Milk becomes mayor of his street, becomes famous and opposed. People try to stifle his message and singers and preachers and all manner of Americans try, and sometimes succeed, to pass bills and stop their differences from growing, becoming accepted. There’s Anita Bryant and John Briggs, rushing from coast to coast to preach against homosexuality, and that burns, deep in America’s bones and heart. Harvey Milk is optimistic, and tells America that he’s running for city supervisor.
The first openly gay man elected to public office in America. It will be a tough election and America is worried, but Harvey is not. He just smiles and gives speeches, presses a hand on his shoulder and assures him that everything will be fine. There are those butterflies again, insistent and unrelenting, making his insides turn to mush and words die on his lips. America is not optimistic.
America is not optimistic, and when Harvey Milk wins the election, he feels as though someone has filled a balloon of pure light in his chest, radiating hope and love and he won oh god he won things are going to change I like boys I like him I like England oh beautiful, for spacious skies, o’er amber waves of grain. He’s singing at the top of his lungs, shouting his glee to the streets, tears of jubilation streaming down his face. The next day, he sees newly-elected city supervisor Harvey Milk, pulls him into a bruising hug, and tries not to cry.
Weeks pass with new decrees and bills and ideas, America staying in San Francisco, communicating with his people, soaking in their dreams and lives and hopes, not talking to his boss.
He had stumbled into his boss’s office in D.C., eyes wild and bright and joyful, voice choked up with laughter, mumbling Boss, Boss, I gotta tell you, I’m gay well no I’m not gay I like boys but I also like girls, oh god, isn’t everything wonderful? His boss had looked at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish, and sighed, rubbing at his wrinkled old temples with wrinkled old hands, muttering that all these changes aren’t good for him, he shouldn’t say something so immoral.
Not talking to his boss, but he honestly doesn’t care, because he has Harvey Milk and Milk is going to change the world, starting right here in California and spreading it across all fifty states, through his limbs and veins like liquid fire. It is wonderful, that so many people without a voice are now gaining one, men and women, black and white, even gray, like Tony, Jewish and Christian and Muslim, gay and straight, people, all his citizens, all precious and dear and normal.
And there is opposition, there is Anita Bryant and John Briggs leading the crusade against them, there’s Proposition 6, trying to ban all gay and accepting of those who are gay teachers from elementary schools, to keep them away from children, saying that they’re perverts and pedophiles and it’s November 7, 1978, they’re out of Vietnam, they’re thriving and growing and living, all people from all walks of life and California, America, can’t pass something like that, it can’t, he can’t-
By nearly a million people, a million American citizens in the state of California, the Proposition fails. Gay teachers can continue to teach, as can their friends and family and America is drunk with joy, feeling the jubilation of his people coursing through him, fueling his energy and he wants to scream, shout his bottled-up joy to skies as vast and endless as his love for his people.
He sees Harvey Milk after, about to give a speech, and he shuffles forward, face flushed and chest heaving as he gulps in the exhilaration from the air. The man stares at him for a moment, then laughs, high and clear and genuinely joyful. “You look happy. Don’t break my back this time, please.”
America smiles and slurs, drunk on his feelings. He wants to congratulate the man, to clap him on the back and tell him that he’s so happy, so proud, so glad to have met him. What he says, is: “I’m different.”
Milk looks at him, eyebrows quirked in confusion. “What?”
“’M not normal. I’m different.” he babbles on, feeling like a shy schoolgirl spilling a secret that he shouldn’t have told.
Milk looks at him, looks into his eyes, and America feels himself melt. “Alfred, you are normal. There is nothing wrong, or abnormal, about what you feel, dammit, and if you haven’t gotten that yet then-”
“No, no, I know that’s normal, but I’m not normal because, well…” he trails off and nibbles at his lip, making the plump skin sting. “I’m America. As in, the United States of. That’s me, and I… Thank you.” He sighs. “Thank you, the nation of America thanks you and thinks you are a godsend. You’re… You’re a hero, man.”
Harvey smiles, wise beyond his years, a hint of a smirk playing behind his lips. “I know, knew, who you were, America. I... Consider it a hunch.” A wink and a smirk and America is breathless as Harvey ascends to the stage, feeling dumbstruck and elated at the same time, the two colliding to form a twister in his body.
"On this anniversary of Stonewall, I ask my gay sisters and brothers to make the commitment to fight. For themselves, for their freedom, for their country ... We will not win our rights by staying quietly in our closets... We are coming out to fight the lies, the myths, the distortions. We are coming out to tell the truths about gays, for I am tired of the conspiracy of silence, so I'm going to talk about it. And I want you to talk about it. You must come out. Come out to your parents, your relatives."
Exactly twenty days later, November 27, 1978, America is sitting with England in a nice San Francisco café, sipping coffee and listening to the other rant about disgusting American coffee and bloody hills, too damn steep and god, this state is so cramped it’s ridiculous.
America listens, brushing his hand over England’s (by accident, of course), watching his face flush red like Christmas lights, noting the curve of his cheekbones and the subtle way his collarbone pokes out from behind his shirt, his shaggy blonde hair, and oh god, those eyebrows… They’re ungodly, and actually quite attractive, when scrunched together as England gets more and more flustered.
They talk, of civil rights and protests, of punk rock and music, of changes and wonders and the sky and sea, stretching on for miles and miles. America thinks of Harvey Milk, changing the world one state at a time, how much he’ll accomplish when he’s through, what his next boss will think of him when they meet, whether he’ll be okay with Alfred’s sexuality and-
Oh. Oh, what was that? An uncomfortable jolt in his heart, making it stutter and falter for a moment, and England is looking at him with badly masked concern, but he brushes it off, it wasn’t that bad, probably the death of a mayor or a city official, which is terrible, but at least it wasn’t the preside-
America collapses, gasping for breath and clutching his chest, nails digging in to the skin so hard through his shirt that they leave red welts, that the threads of the fabric start to tear, because someone died, someone important, oh god who who who what’s going on it hasn’t hurt this much since Kennedy, I can’t breathe, please someone help.
England’s shouting, but not to call 911, asking and pleading for the president, is he alive, god you bastards, answer me. America’s heart splutters and spits, but then starts up again, pumping desperately needed blood all throughout his body, waking up his veins and allowing him to take in deep gulps of air, sucking in the pure life from all around him. Life, tainted with death. Something’s wrong, horribly, terribly wrong.
It’s not till later when he gets the news, hears the whispers and voices and the candlelit vigils, and feels his whole being crumble into ruin. In his mind, the streets of New York, of Philadelphia, of Los Angeles and New Orleans and San Francisco are all in ruin, concrete and steel strewn everywhere, Lady Liberty cracked and crumbled in the waters of the Hudson.
Harvey Milk, so full of hope, so strong and smiling in the face of adversity, lies dead on the floor of City Hall, along with mayor. Shot, five times, by a former colleague.
America feels his heart breaking in two, and allows himself to be taken into England’s arms, to be held and cuddled and clings to the former empire, shoulders shaking as he sobs. All his hopes, his dreams, his goals and he’s not normal yes he is he’s not, all stamped out, silenced by a bullet.
His murderer is put on trial, sentenced for voluntary manslaughter, not murder, sentence for seven years, most likely out in five. There are protests, riots, people shouting and crying and this isn’t fair, Harvey, dear, dead Harvey, I couldn’t protect you I’m a hero I should have make sure no one hurt you I’m sorry. He’s dead, and America cannot comprehend that. It seems like such a short time ago he was standing at a podium, giving speeches and promising hope for everyone, all men and women.
"All men are created equal, all men. No matter how hard you try, you can never erase those words."
And so America picks up a candle and a bottle of beer, lifting the bottle to his lips, tasting the sour alcohol like liquid fire down his throat, and feeling the candle’s wax drip down his fingers, hot and sticky on his sweaty skin. He’ll drink to Milk, to his life and triumphs and the hope he brought to a small, insignificant street in San Francisco, and to one nation, just beginning to find himself in the world.
He’ll drink, he’ll weep, but he won’t let Harvey Milk die in vain. America clutches the candle, dripping wax, reminding him of his days as a colony where the only light he had was from the flickering flames, the stars and moon. He grips the thin white cylindar, and though Harvey Milk’s future was snuffed out, America grits his teeth and starts preparing for his.
It’s December 1978, and America has a long way to go.
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OP wanted an assassination to be represented by a heart attack type thing.
Notes:
Stonewall, 1969, referencing the Stonewall Riots in 1969. Police were raiding a gay bar, the patrons were all like "fuck that" and rioted. It brought the gay rights movement to national attention in America.
John Briggs and Anita Bryant were infamous for their opposition to the gay rights movement, and tried to shut it down with varying success in different states.
Harvey Milk was not, in fact, killed specifically because he was gay. He was killed because someone else who was on the town council with him, Dan White, who had resigned from the board, was pissed off at him for... other reasons that I don't remember cause it's almost midnight. However, his sentance was so leniant because most of the jury was more conservative and didn't support Milk. The guy killed two people and only went to jail for five years.
Also, I debated about the "it hasn't hurt this much since Kennedy" line, whether I should have changed it to "King," for Martin Luther King Jr, but I stuck with Kennedy. Maybe he meant Robert Kennedy.