[Hetalia] "In the Darkness"
I feel kind of bad that my first story in 2012 is a sad one... but I did say I wanted to finish my dark bingo card this month...
~*~
Title: "In the Darkness"
Author: shuriken7
Claim: America
Character(s): America, England, Canada (hints of America/England)
Table/Prompt: Time/16. Bad Times @ hetachallenge, Coma @ dark_bingo
Word Count: 2618
Rating: PG-13
Summary: England can not stop thinking about the last time he saw America at the onset of the American Civil War. He receives a letter from Canada telling him that they need him, he comes... afraid of what he will find.
A/N: This is kind of a continuity of my story The Trent Affair. It is not necessary to read that story to understand this one, but it will give it more context.
“I want you to promise me something... If I die... promise me you’ll remember me...” he said as he faded away, the bright blue of his eyes dimming. All the light that he believed in and tried to be disappeared from them forever...
England jolted out of the dream, disoriented in the flickering light of his candle, the sun having long set beyond the horizon. He picked his head up off the desk, his eyes searching around the room, then drifting back to his paperwork. He was certain he was being absurd, but ever since he said goodbye to him on that dock and that letter of his activities before he heard nothing more... anything slight could remind him of America. It was as though he had tried to forget about him, but he just wouldn’t leave his mind. Everything reminded him of the young nation across the ocean that was being torn apart by civil war. He heard rumors of what was going on there, little tidbits slipped to him by Canada. He worried about the boy, having to watch someone so close be shredded. He would have to make sure that never happened to the colony. It was already planned, Canada would get his unity, and it would protect him from America should anything happen again. If America survived to do anything in the future.
He shook his head, not even wanting to consider the possibility. He couldn’t deny it, he had seen real fear in America’s eyes when he asked for his promise. America was not sure he was going to survive this. England didn’t believe it, he had survived longer and bloodier wars than he hoped America and no other country would have to face, so it wasn’t possible. He was going to hold to that hope. The other would live, and maybe one day... he’d be able to tell him how he feels... once he discovers his feelings exactly. He leaned back in his chair, watching the candlelight flicker over the books on his shelves, famous authors and great thinkers. England wished that he could find the wisdom he wanted in them. They held great wisdom, just nothing that he could could use for this dilemma. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to banish the image in the dream, of America’s dead eyes staring back at him, or worse, the other dream where they were replaced by the Confederacy’s eyes with all of his many promises and desires.
A soft knock sounded on his door and he allowed the person entry. It was a messenger, apologizing for the late hour. England instructed him to leave the letter and go, and the man followed the instruction, closing the door behind him as he exited. England held it up to the light to see who it was. The sender had to be of some importance for the letter to have been delivered at such an hour. His eyes widened, Canada... He tore open the letter immediately hoping for news on the situation in North America... more particularly, America’s state. The ink was run in some places as though it had been wet, could Canada have been crying as he wrote it? As his eyes read the words, he knew that had to have been the case.
Dear England,
America is extremely unwell. I don’t know what I can do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t...
It seemed he had paused there for quite a while, the ink blot rather large.
I know that it is of little concern to you.
England would feel sick if Canada knew how great a concern he had over the situation.
But, I would appreciate your presence. I know that there are greater things for your attention, but please, England. He and I need you, Alfred and Matthew need Arthur.
Sincerely,
Canada
Matthew
England reread it several times, desiring to know what exactly would have upset the colony so much. What was he saying, of course he was upset, there were closer than any two nations really had a right to be and he had heard from others that Canada had been sneaking across the border to try and help him. His people as well, pretending to be from Michigan or Vermont or another northern state, going to fight the volatile Confederacy. He would go, not as England, but as Arthur. He would trust that his people could take care of things while he was away. He checked the port that the letter was sent out of, surprised to see that it near the fighting, just above the border of the self-proclaimed Confederate States of America. He left the room, blowing out his candle, the letter tucked into his pocket to make the preparations. Ready to embark the next day.
He threw himself into any work on the ship that he could, hoping to be so exhausted that the nights would not bring him nightmares of deathly pale faces of the young North Americans, or a certain pair of blue eyes darkening in death. He found Canada in the town, the young man having managed to receive the letter explaining the England was coming. Canada’s violet eyes looked tired and he looked as ragged as the people who made their home there. It made England’s stomach turn to see such proud towns brought down to such a state. He couldn’t imagine that this was America’s land anymore, and then he remembered, it wasn’t really. Right now it was contested land between the Union and the Confederacy, two people trapped in one body.
“Canada, what are you doing down here?”
“I... well... you see...”
“You are helping him.”
“I am helping myself, he can’t fall apart. He can’t.” he shook his head, as though he was willing away any image that was of any other nation bordering him. England looked at him at the corner of his eye, shocked at how forgiving Canada was being. He was often a target when America would get made at England, and it had made his early years very difficult, not being sure where he stood. England supposed he should feel guilty for that, but he couldn’t bring himself to think of anything but his next question.
“Is he? Falling apart?”
“H-he...” Canada stuttered, opening and closing his mouth several times as though he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He squeezed his eyes shut, as though to will back any tears, before continuing, “You’ll see soon enough.”
England tried to prepare himself as Canada led him off into a lonely part of the woods. His heart sinking at the state of the building they headed towards. Was America living there? Why would he choose such a place? Canada paused at the door, looking to England, a wondering look in his eye. England nodded, it was now or never. He was ready. Canada opened the small door, leading the way inside. England’s eyes immediately fell upon the bed in the room, a familiar blonde head poking out from beneath the blankets.
“He won’t wake up.” Canada stated, sadness evident in his voice.
“He’s not...” His heart sank as he closed the distance to the bed, sinking to his knees. He reached out tentatively to touch America’s hair. He remembered stroking his hair that night several years ago now, when America had been pressed up against his side, wanting comfort in the darkness. Why did he not have the courage to say anything then? His fingers reached the blonde locks finding it was not soft as he remembered, but coarse to the touch. He could still feel the warmth of his skin, almost the same unnatural heat he had that night. He wasn’t dead.
“I think he’s shut down. So many of his people are dead...” Canada gestured to the table, covered in newspapers, names listed, the words dead or killed or missing stamped besides their names. “I didn’t know what to do anymore. I brought him here so he could be safe. It wouldn’t right for the humans to see him like this.”
England nodded, pulling the blanket away from America’s face, his heart breaking a little as he looked at how thin he was. His face devoid of any of his usual joy and boisterousness. In this moment, England would have even taken a look of defiance. He leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together, “America...” he said, trying to keep the pain from choking his words.
He barely heard the door shut, as Canada left. He let the tears fall then, tears that he could only cry because of the person in front of him. He shifted so that he could lay beside him, gathering that bone thin body into his arms and shaking both their frames as the emotion drained out of him.
“America, come back. I don’t want you to be a memory, I don’t want your ghost. Even though I know I said it once, and I haven’t exactly been very...” Open? Honest? Clear? All three? He didn’t know, “The point is... I’ve never wanted you gone, you have to survive this. I need you, and it’s not about your goods or inventions. I-it’s you. I need you. You were the closest... I...” He still couldn’t say them, those words that if said aloud would change everything. They would make those feelings he had real, and he didn’t want it to be like this. He shut his eyes so that he could pretend America was just sleeping, not comatose. He pressed his lips to his forehead, feeling the heat from the slight fever. He reached for the wash cloth that he had seen in the basin at the head of the bed and pressed the cool cloth to the young nation’s burning skin.
He jumped when he heard a voice, “Why do we have to suffer?” It was Canada’s voice, soft and barely audible. England turned so he could look over his shoulder. He hadn’t seen Canada look that way since he had taken him from France’s arms, around 100 years ago. He held out a hand for him, and Canada climbed to the other side of the bed, snuggling against his brother’s back, burying his face in the ragged shirt. England reached across America’s body to pat his hair, such a contrast to the way America felt beneath his fingers in that moment.
“The philosophers and religious peoples would say it is fate.” he replied.
“Fate, eh?” Canada whispered. “I don’t like fighting.”
“I know, but don’t forget, it’s your duty. Do you think America wanted this? He is still fighting, it’s just all in his head now. Canada, this won’t happen to you.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ll make sure of it.” England said, Canada nodded. The part of the boy’s face he could see, he could tell he didn’t believe him. England couldn’t blame him, he didn’t believe himself. He reached farther, so he could pull Canada into the embrace he already held America in. He wished that holding him like this, he would wake up, as if they could shield him from what was happening in his heart and mind, not only on his lands. In the stillness he could hear all of their breaths, two strong and steady, one weak and rattling.
“I am surprised that you did come.” Canada said after a while, his face still pressed into America’s back.
“Why?”
“Well, he had told me you came at the beginning, but he didn’t think that much had changed. I just...”
“You have permission to speak plainly.”
“I can still remember how much of a wreck you were when he left. I suppose it surprises me that you would hold him like this.”
“You surprise me too. For forgiving him for the War of 1812.” He found the scar on Canada’s neck, still healing even though it had been many years. Canada tilted away from him.
“I haven’t forgiven him, not yet. He... he doesn’t know I’m here. By the time I found him, he was already like this.” he looked at him over America’s body, “I want it to stay that way.”
England nodded, “For my part as well.”
“I promise.” At that, he disappeared behind his neighbors larger frame, and England listened as his breathing slowed in sleep. As the sun dipped below the horizon England found himself unable to rest, in the distance he could hear the sounds of gun and cannon fire. He could feel Canada flinch in his sleep, but America didn’t even move. England found himself whispering quietly to him, to perhaps both North Americans, stories that he used to tell them when they were little. At one point he lost his train of thought and started on the few endearments he would award. When he had run out of them, he looked at America’s face in the darkness. He could really examine it now, as he had not been able to without looking too conspicuous.
He was certainly older, although his face still held youth, even as thin and pale as it was. His body was longer than England’s now. England was sure when he was well, he was handsome and full of life. He had always been that way, even as a child. He had been something he wanted to be around, something that dreams could be breathed into. It made his heart clench to realize that the fact that he was built on dreams was what was breaking him now.
“This wouldn’t have happened if you had stayed with me.” he said, quietly, the sound barely traveling beyond his lips. “But then, you wouldn’t be anything that you are now would you? You have become so much more than I ever imagined, America. You are not the little boy that I knew.”
No, he was a man. A man that pulled more of his heartstrings than England wanted to admit to. He put his hands on either side of America’s face.
“Will you see me as something more than your former sovereign nation, someday? You are not my colony. You... I... lo-.” Canada shifted in his sleep, suddenly reminding England of his presence, silencing him. He paused in the darkness, waiting to hear if he had woken. Soon enough, he drifted back into the restful sleep he had been in before. England turned his attention back to America, to a face that he could pretend was only sleeping if he tried hard enough.
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to America’s, willing up any magic that he could summon to help the torn nation wake up. Nothing. Those too hot, chapped lips didn’t move. America didn’t respond. He tried again, wishing America would wake up even if it was to shove him away and tell him that he didn’t care about him that way. Still nothing.
His heart sank, and he resigned himself to tucking his face in the crook of America’s neck, hiding his tears at the state he was in.
It all became routine, waking during the day to respond to letters from home that were smuggled down from the north. Canada refusing to leave, even though he gave him leave to each and every day. America not moving, even as they held him at night, praying that finally he would stir. Praying that he would wake up and smile that goofy grin of his and tell them that he was fine. Praying that it would not be a stranger that woke up pressed between them, someone who knew them, but not someone they knew in return.
They waited, until the day he would wake up.
~*~
Title: "In the Darkness"
Author: shuriken7
Claim: America
Character(s): America, England, Canada (hints of America/England)
Table/Prompt: Time/16. Bad Times @ hetachallenge, Coma @ dark_bingo
Word Count: 2618
Rating: PG-13
Summary: England can not stop thinking about the last time he saw America at the onset of the American Civil War. He receives a letter from Canada telling him that they need him, he comes... afraid of what he will find.
A/N: This is kind of a continuity of my story The Trent Affair. It is not necessary to read that story to understand this one, but it will give it more context.
“I want you to promise me something... If I die... promise me you’ll remember me...” he said as he faded away, the bright blue of his eyes dimming. All the light that he believed in and tried to be disappeared from them forever...
England jolted out of the dream, disoriented in the flickering light of his candle, the sun having long set beyond the horizon. He picked his head up off the desk, his eyes searching around the room, then drifting back to his paperwork. He was certain he was being absurd, but ever since he said goodbye to him on that dock and that letter of his activities before he heard nothing more... anything slight could remind him of America. It was as though he had tried to forget about him, but he just wouldn’t leave his mind. Everything reminded him of the young nation across the ocean that was being torn apart by civil war. He heard rumors of what was going on there, little tidbits slipped to him by Canada. He worried about the boy, having to watch someone so close be shredded. He would have to make sure that never happened to the colony. It was already planned, Canada would get his unity, and it would protect him from America should anything happen again. If America survived to do anything in the future.
He shook his head, not even wanting to consider the possibility. He couldn’t deny it, he had seen real fear in America’s eyes when he asked for his promise. America was not sure he was going to survive this. England didn’t believe it, he had survived longer and bloodier wars than he hoped America and no other country would have to face, so it wasn’t possible. He was going to hold to that hope. The other would live, and maybe one day... he’d be able to tell him how he feels... once he discovers his feelings exactly. He leaned back in his chair, watching the candlelight flicker over the books on his shelves, famous authors and great thinkers. England wished that he could find the wisdom he wanted in them. They held great wisdom, just nothing that he could could use for this dilemma. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to banish the image in the dream, of America’s dead eyes staring back at him, or worse, the other dream where they were replaced by the Confederacy’s eyes with all of his many promises and desires.
A soft knock sounded on his door and he allowed the person entry. It was a messenger, apologizing for the late hour. England instructed him to leave the letter and go, and the man followed the instruction, closing the door behind him as he exited. England held it up to the light to see who it was. The sender had to be of some importance for the letter to have been delivered at such an hour. His eyes widened, Canada... He tore open the letter immediately hoping for news on the situation in North America... more particularly, America’s state. The ink was run in some places as though it had been wet, could Canada have been crying as he wrote it? As his eyes read the words, he knew that had to have been the case.
Dear England,
America is extremely unwell. I don’t know what I can do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t...
It seemed he had paused there for quite a while, the ink blot rather large.
I know that it is of little concern to you.
England would feel sick if Canada knew how great a concern he had over the situation.
But, I would appreciate your presence. I know that there are greater things for your attention, but please, England. He and I need you, Alfred and Matthew need Arthur.
Sincerely,
Canada
Matthew
England reread it several times, desiring to know what exactly would have upset the colony so much. What was he saying, of course he was upset, there were closer than any two nations really had a right to be and he had heard from others that Canada had been sneaking across the border to try and help him. His people as well, pretending to be from Michigan or Vermont or another northern state, going to fight the volatile Confederacy. He would go, not as England, but as Arthur. He would trust that his people could take care of things while he was away. He checked the port that the letter was sent out of, surprised to see that it near the fighting, just above the border of the self-proclaimed Confederate States of America. He left the room, blowing out his candle, the letter tucked into his pocket to make the preparations. Ready to embark the next day.
He threw himself into any work on the ship that he could, hoping to be so exhausted that the nights would not bring him nightmares of deathly pale faces of the young North Americans, or a certain pair of blue eyes darkening in death. He found Canada in the town, the young man having managed to receive the letter explaining the England was coming. Canada’s violet eyes looked tired and he looked as ragged as the people who made their home there. It made England’s stomach turn to see such proud towns brought down to such a state. He couldn’t imagine that this was America’s land anymore, and then he remembered, it wasn’t really. Right now it was contested land between the Union and the Confederacy, two people trapped in one body.
“Canada, what are you doing down here?”
“I... well... you see...”
“You are helping him.”
“I am helping myself, he can’t fall apart. He can’t.” he shook his head, as though he was willing away any image that was of any other nation bordering him. England looked at him at the corner of his eye, shocked at how forgiving Canada was being. He was often a target when America would get made at England, and it had made his early years very difficult, not being sure where he stood. England supposed he should feel guilty for that, but he couldn’t bring himself to think of anything but his next question.
“Is he? Falling apart?”
“H-he...” Canada stuttered, opening and closing his mouth several times as though he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He squeezed his eyes shut, as though to will back any tears, before continuing, “You’ll see soon enough.”
England tried to prepare himself as Canada led him off into a lonely part of the woods. His heart sinking at the state of the building they headed towards. Was America living there? Why would he choose such a place? Canada paused at the door, looking to England, a wondering look in his eye. England nodded, it was now or never. He was ready. Canada opened the small door, leading the way inside. England’s eyes immediately fell upon the bed in the room, a familiar blonde head poking out from beneath the blankets.
“He won’t wake up.” Canada stated, sadness evident in his voice.
“He’s not...” His heart sank as he closed the distance to the bed, sinking to his knees. He reached out tentatively to touch America’s hair. He remembered stroking his hair that night several years ago now, when America had been pressed up against his side, wanting comfort in the darkness. Why did he not have the courage to say anything then? His fingers reached the blonde locks finding it was not soft as he remembered, but coarse to the touch. He could still feel the warmth of his skin, almost the same unnatural heat he had that night. He wasn’t dead.
“I think he’s shut down. So many of his people are dead...” Canada gestured to the table, covered in newspapers, names listed, the words dead or killed or missing stamped besides their names. “I didn’t know what to do anymore. I brought him here so he could be safe. It wouldn’t right for the humans to see him like this.”
England nodded, pulling the blanket away from America’s face, his heart breaking a little as he looked at how thin he was. His face devoid of any of his usual joy and boisterousness. In this moment, England would have even taken a look of defiance. He leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together, “America...” he said, trying to keep the pain from choking his words.
He barely heard the door shut, as Canada left. He let the tears fall then, tears that he could only cry because of the person in front of him. He shifted so that he could lay beside him, gathering that bone thin body into his arms and shaking both their frames as the emotion drained out of him.
“America, come back. I don’t want you to be a memory, I don’t want your ghost. Even though I know I said it once, and I haven’t exactly been very...” Open? Honest? Clear? All three? He didn’t know, “The point is... I’ve never wanted you gone, you have to survive this. I need you, and it’s not about your goods or inventions. I-it’s you. I need you. You were the closest... I...” He still couldn’t say them, those words that if said aloud would change everything. They would make those feelings he had real, and he didn’t want it to be like this. He shut his eyes so that he could pretend America was just sleeping, not comatose. He pressed his lips to his forehead, feeling the heat from the slight fever. He reached for the wash cloth that he had seen in the basin at the head of the bed and pressed the cool cloth to the young nation’s burning skin.
He jumped when he heard a voice, “Why do we have to suffer?” It was Canada’s voice, soft and barely audible. England turned so he could look over his shoulder. He hadn’t seen Canada look that way since he had taken him from France’s arms, around 100 years ago. He held out a hand for him, and Canada climbed to the other side of the bed, snuggling against his brother’s back, burying his face in the ragged shirt. England reached across America’s body to pat his hair, such a contrast to the way America felt beneath his fingers in that moment.
“The philosophers and religious peoples would say it is fate.” he replied.
“Fate, eh?” Canada whispered. “I don’t like fighting.”
“I know, but don’t forget, it’s your duty. Do you think America wanted this? He is still fighting, it’s just all in his head now. Canada, this won’t happen to you.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ll make sure of it.” England said, Canada nodded. The part of the boy’s face he could see, he could tell he didn’t believe him. England couldn’t blame him, he didn’t believe himself. He reached farther, so he could pull Canada into the embrace he already held America in. He wished that holding him like this, he would wake up, as if they could shield him from what was happening in his heart and mind, not only on his lands. In the stillness he could hear all of their breaths, two strong and steady, one weak and rattling.
“I am surprised that you did come.” Canada said after a while, his face still pressed into America’s back.
“Why?”
“Well, he had told me you came at the beginning, but he didn’t think that much had changed. I just...”
“You have permission to speak plainly.”
“I can still remember how much of a wreck you were when he left. I suppose it surprises me that you would hold him like this.”
“You surprise me too. For forgiving him for the War of 1812.” He found the scar on Canada’s neck, still healing even though it had been many years. Canada tilted away from him.
“I haven’t forgiven him, not yet. He... he doesn’t know I’m here. By the time I found him, he was already like this.” he looked at him over America’s body, “I want it to stay that way.”
England nodded, “For my part as well.”
“I promise.” At that, he disappeared behind his neighbors larger frame, and England listened as his breathing slowed in sleep. As the sun dipped below the horizon England found himself unable to rest, in the distance he could hear the sounds of gun and cannon fire. He could feel Canada flinch in his sleep, but America didn’t even move. England found himself whispering quietly to him, to perhaps both North Americans, stories that he used to tell them when they were little. At one point he lost his train of thought and started on the few endearments he would award. When he had run out of them, he looked at America’s face in the darkness. He could really examine it now, as he had not been able to without looking too conspicuous.
He was certainly older, although his face still held youth, even as thin and pale as it was. His body was longer than England’s now. England was sure when he was well, he was handsome and full of life. He had always been that way, even as a child. He had been something he wanted to be around, something that dreams could be breathed into. It made his heart clench to realize that the fact that he was built on dreams was what was breaking him now.
“This wouldn’t have happened if you had stayed with me.” he said, quietly, the sound barely traveling beyond his lips. “But then, you wouldn’t be anything that you are now would you? You have become so much more than I ever imagined, America. You are not the little boy that I knew.”
No, he was a man. A man that pulled more of his heartstrings than England wanted to admit to. He put his hands on either side of America’s face.
“Will you see me as something more than your former sovereign nation, someday? You are not my colony. You... I... lo-.” Canada shifted in his sleep, suddenly reminding England of his presence, silencing him. He paused in the darkness, waiting to hear if he had woken. Soon enough, he drifted back into the restful sleep he had been in before. England turned his attention back to America, to a face that he could pretend was only sleeping if he tried hard enough.
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to America’s, willing up any magic that he could summon to help the torn nation wake up. Nothing. Those too hot, chapped lips didn’t move. America didn’t respond. He tried again, wishing America would wake up even if it was to shove him away and tell him that he didn’t care about him that way. Still nothing.
His heart sank, and he resigned himself to tucking his face in the crook of America’s neck, hiding his tears at the state he was in.
It all became routine, waking during the day to respond to letters from home that were smuggled down from the north. Canada refusing to leave, even though he gave him leave to each and every day. America not moving, even as they held him at night, praying that finally he would stir. Praying that he would wake up and smile that goofy grin of his and tell them that he was fine. Praying that it would not be a stranger that woke up pressed between them, someone who knew them, but not someone they knew in return.
They waited, until the day he would wake up.