Chapter Text
August 1814, Washington
America stood at the outskirts of Washington, pale and wide-eyed.
He couldn’t believe it, his mind refused to grasp the truth of the last hours, it had to be only a dream, an illusion… but it wasn’t. As far as he could see, the streets crawled with men clad in crimson, not a single blue coat was in sight.
British soldiers commanded the streets of Washington.
America had lost.
In spite of all his efforts, the bravery of his men… he had lost.
His mind still couldn’t fully grasp the concept, everything felt oddly empty and disconnected, he couldn’t comprehend how such a thing could have happened, but somehow, it had.
There was nothing more to do, he had lost.
In the wake of England’s last victory, everybody had fled, and his generals had tried to convince him to follow them, but America had vehemently refused. There was no way he would abandon his capital like that, he could still fight, he could still protect what was left…
Now he was starting to realize how pointless his choice had been. Was there anything at all he could do, after all? He was alone, a teenager boy standing in front of an army. Even if he could somehow beat England – which wasn’t likely at the moment, he was still worn out from the last fight – he had no way to reverse history. No way to stop what was going to happen.
With sudden clarity, America understood that the only thing he could do was watch as the enemy soldiers carried out what they had been waiting for since the previous year – exacting their revenge.
America could feel the bile rise to the back of his throat, his head was spinning mercilessly.
He knew what was going to happen, and was powerless to stop it.
His muscles frozen and his throat dry, America could do nothing but stand in front of the city.
“Alfred.”
The tired voice jerked him back to reality. America whirled back, startled, his hands closing automatically around the rifle.
“You won’t need that,” said England.
Like America, he was still wearing a dirty, tattered uniform, a bandage around his left arm marked the presence of a fresh injury and his hair looked even messier than usual. England’s face was devoid of any emotion, but the pallor of his skin and purple bags under his eyes betrayed the heavy toll the last battle had taken from him and his men. In spite of that, the British Empire stood tall and proud, his shoulders squared, managing to look impressive despite his slight frame.
At his left side, slightly behind him, stood Canada.
America’s heart missed a beat at the sight of his younger brother, his mind flashing back to the last time he had seen him, more than a year before – a limp, bloodied body in England’s arms. In the present moment, the child’s face was milky white and his lilac eyes unnaturally wide, he almost looked like he was about to faint, but he was standing straight, with his jaw clenched, trying to appear as strong and confident as his older brothers. His uniform, noticed America, was pristine, and there wasn’t a single smudge of dirt or blood on his whole body. America mentally sighed in relief at that: as he had suspected a few hours before, when he hadn’t glimpsed his little brother on the battlefield, England hadn’t allowed him to join the fray. In spite of the resentment, he couldn’t help but feel grateful to their older brother for that decision.
“I knew you wouldn’t leave,” said England, his voice forcefully neutral.
America shrugged as he put down the rifle.
“Of course not!” he boasted, grinning. “I won’t leave my capital. I can take whatever comes!”
His voice sounded fake and strained even to his own ears. Could he truly? For how much America tried not to think about it, memories of Canada’s agonized scream and contorted face kept popping up in his thoughts. He knew he was stronger than his little brother, being only a colony, Canada had been affected more badly than he would, but… was he really that strong that he could withstand so much pain without consequences?
England’s features didn’t relax.
“Just don’t try to get into the city. There’s nothing you can do to help.”
America knew he was right, and that did nothing but exacerbate the pang of anger he felt against the older nation. He opened his mouth to speak, frowning – and a gasp was torn from his lips as an unexpected burst of pain flared up in his chest.
All the colour was drained from America’s face as he instinctively clutched at his shirt, hunching over. His widened eyes frantically swept over the horizon, finally landing on a thin column of smoke that was starting to rise to the cloudless sky. The Capitol.
“It has started,” England said sombrely, his eyes stubbornly trained on the city, avoiding to meet America’s gaze.
“Yes, I can feel that!” America snapped, clenching his teeth as the pain in his chest intensified. How long was he going to last before collapsing?
“You bastard,” he swore for good measure, trying to keep the pain at bay. “You’ve already won, what’s the point of this?!”
England’s face was bloodless, his eyes forcefully blank, America couldn’t read him.
“You know why I’m doing this. You should have expected a retribution for your actions.”
But there was no real strength in his voice, and his words sounded hollow.
America hissed. Rage was boiling in his veins along with the increasing pain, the rage of his people, the denial for his loss, he wanted to cuss out at England, to hurt him… but he couldn’t. Partly because he wasn’t strong enough, and partly because… well. In the back of his mind, Alfred couldn’t help but think that he kind of deserved it. Of course, he didn’t want his city to be destroyed, but… he had burned down York. He desperately tried to deny it, but… he understood why England needed to do it.
“We’re only burning government’s buildings, anyway. I’ve made sure that none of the civilian houses will be touched.”
America couldn’t tell if it was England’s way to reassure him, or if the man wanted to point out that it was still more than he deserved. He hadn’t granted Canada the same courtesy, after all.
“Don’t try to make me feel guilty,” he snarled. The blood was pounding in his ears, making it difficult to think. “It won’t work. I thought that a ‘civilized’ nation like you would be above the ‘eye for an eye’ mentality…”
A sudden burst of agony drove America to his knees, stealing the air from his lungs. He could feel the explosion resounding in his bones, his nerves screamed in pain as stones and wood started to crumble.
A small, keening wail had him raise his head – Canada.
The boy’s eyes were huge, terror was glowing in his lilac irises. His right hand was clutching convulsively England’s coat. The man placed a reassuring hand on Canada’s shoulder, but America could see his fingers trembling slightly in spite of his forcefully blank expression.
America wanted to hate them – both of them, his people were crying with fear and rage as they watched the flames grow, while the red-clad soldiers cheered at their completely unnecessary action. They had already won, what was the point in humiliating him that way?
“Fuck you!” he spat out through his clenched teeth, desperately trying to breathe through the pain.
Canada whimpered again.
America wanted to curse at him, the boy was standing still and healthy as America’s capital was being set ablaze, he had no right to feel sorry for himself. When his eyes fell on Matthew’s bloodless face, however, he remembered. The horror, the helplessness he had felt as he had run through the burning city, desperately praying for his little brother to be still alive, the shocked denial at his soldiers’ actions…
Now, Canada knew what his soldiers were up to. He had known for a while, he had time to prepare himself for the moment. But that didn’t mean he had any more power than Alfred to stop his men’s actions.
“Why did you bring him here?” America snarled at England, trying to keep the waves of pain at bay by talking. “He didn’t need to see this!”
England’s face was as pale as Canada’s, almost translucent, but his expression was stony, numb. If America hadn’t known better, he would have thought he felt no regret for what was happening. But he did know better. He remembered the way England had hesitated before pulling the trigger, granting him the chance to win. He remembered the tears soaking Arthur’s face, disappearing among the raindrops.
Alfred wished he could hate him as pain flared up in every inch of his body. That would make everything so much easier…
Another explosion of agony washed over him, tearing a hoarse scream from his lips. America vaguely felt himself falling, his body lacking of the necessary strength to keep him upright. For a moment, his surroundings faded in a pulse of red agony.
When the pain decreased to a bearable level, America realized that he was lying on the ground, curled on his side. Tears were prickling at the corners of his eyes. Somehow, with every inch of his will, he gritted his teeth and refused to let them fall.
Slim, delicate fingers brushed his bangs away from his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” said Canada’s soft voice.
The boy was kneeling next to him. Through the haze of tears, America could see his milky white face leaning over him. There were tears glimmering at the corners of his widened eyes, but his jaw was set in determination.
“I’m sorry. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me in York, but… my men don’t. They need this retribution. I understand if you won’t forgive me, but I will stay. There’s nothing I can do to stop this, the least I can do is to stay.”
America wanted to yell at him and grab the small fingers that were gently threading through his hair, snap them like twigs and hear Canada’s raw scream of agony increase until they reached his.
Alfred wanted to plead Matthew to go away, to turn his eyes from the fire and devastation that were eating him. He didn’t want his little brother to experience the same guilt and fear he had as he had held his burning body.
“Mattie…” he moaned through the pain, grabbing Canada’s hand.
The child intertwined their fingers, squeezing lightly.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he kept murmuring, mirroring his brother’s action of over a year before as he adjusted himself to cushion America’s head with his thighs.
America buried his head against his little brother as fire coursed through his veins, reaching every inch of his body with searing waves of agony. There were tears dampening his face as he moaned in pain, and Canada’s tears were dropping on his hair.
“I’m sorry,” he could hear the boy whisper, “I’m so sorry.”
Another hand, rougher and bigger, gently landed on his cheek.
America managed to turn his head to look at England. The man was crouching by them, his bloodless face set in determination.
“It’s going to be all right, lad,” he said.
The last thing America saw was a faint green glow, then his consciousness faded into darkness.
Canada was a coward.
There was no denying it, no sugar-coating. He knew that he was a coward.
If he weren’t, he wouldn’t have problems with facing his brother. He wouldn’t have felt relief blossom in his chest when England had kept him away from the battlefield. Of course, he had tried to protest, but that had been because he had been worried about England getting hurt so he wanted to be by his side, not because of an actual thirst for battle. Canada didn’t like fighting, even less when his brother was involved. He so desperately wished that they could get along, stay together… but he was a nation. A nation shouldn’t feel a weight closing off his stomach each time he saw the enemy’s blood soak his hands. A nation had duties to his people. He knew that they had to hurt America, he knew that his people needed retribution for York and all the other horrors of the war. He shouldn’t feel dread scratching at his insides each time he thought about hurting his older brother. This meant he was a coward, didn’t it?
But even his cowardice had limits.
“We’ve already won. You don’t have to see this,” England said as Canada hastily bandaged his injured arm, a light wince on his face when the boy wrapped the white cloth a bit too tightly.
His voice was as smooth and reassuring as ever, but Canada knew him too well to be fooled by his words. The man’s eyes looked dull, his smile was strained. Canada could tell that he didn’t relish in what he was about to do – he would carry out his duty, because as a nation he had to, but he dreaded the moment he would have to hurt America. His favourite younger brother.
In spite of that, England was about to do that. For him. The least he could do was to be at his side, Canada thought as he tried not to think about what else his decision would imply.
“You can go away,” England said a second time, gently, when they finally caught sight of America.
Canada’s instinct told him to flee – but right then, he realized that there was another reason he had to stay.
America’s shoulders were slumped, his skin paler than Canada remembered, and his uniform was in tatters, covered with mud and blood. He didn’t look injured, but the sight of his usually so lively brother with such a defeated expression on his face made Canada’s stomach twist.
America knew what was about to come. It wouldn’t be as bad as York had been, both Canada and England had been irremovable at that, no civilians would be harmed, but it was still his capital. It was still going to hurt, and that was because Canada’s men had decided that. Unlike America, he was fully aware of their resolution, and hadn’t protested enough to stop them. He knew that they needed it… and in spite of that, the thought of hurting Alfred only brought terror into his mind.
He was a coward.
And the least he could do was to be there for Alfred, like his brother had at York.
However, Canada couldn’t have even begun to imagine how hard it would be. Every time he watched his brother’s face contort in agony, a fragment of his heart shattered. He would have done anything to make his pain stop, but could do nothing but apologize and stroke his brother’s dirty hair. He had ever felt so utterly powerless and useless only one time before, at England’s bedside in the aftermath of the Revolutionary War. But at least, that time it hadn’t been his fault.
Even worse, part of Canada relished in his brother’s pain. He could feel his people’s satisfaction as they watched their neighbour nation’s humiliation, the sudden, dizzying rush of power at the sight of the Capitol ablaze. It was inebriating, sickening, Canada wanted to claw at his skin and scream until the horrible, inhuman feeling was gone – but now he had to focus on Alfred’s trembling body, on the hand that was clutching his so tightly that Canada feared his fingers would break. Part of him thought he would have deserved the pain.
When England used his magic to spare his brother from the pain, Canada felt almost dizzy with relief.
“Are you all right?” England asked softly, his eyes focused on the tears that soaked Canada’s face. His own eyes glowered with regret.
Canada lowered his head in shame. It wasn’t fair, England had so many things to worry about, and America was the one in pain… England shouldn’t have to worry for him.
“I’m fine,” he lied, tightening his hold on his brother’s limp hand with his left hand while he used the other to brush the tears from his cheeks.
England sighed tiredly. From his furrowed brow and still contracted features of his face, Canada could tell that England had seen right through his lie, but he didn’t insist. He looked too tired to do so.
“We should bring him to a tent,” he said instead, “I don’t think this will keep him unconscious for long. It didn’t for you, and he’s a grown nation…”
‘He’s stronger than you,’ Canada read in his sudden silence.
‘But I’m not as strong as he is because I’ve chosen to stay by your side!’ he wanted to scream, but clenched his teeth and kept his mouth shut. He knew that it was only a part of the issue – America would always be stronger, better, brighter. Especially in England’s eyes. And the worst thing was – it was true. How could Canada even begin to compete with his energy, his vitality, the beaming smile and glowing eyes that had always managed to make the drawn features of England’s face relax? He couldn’t. For how much he tried, he would always be nothing but a pale imitation of his older brother, a defective replacement.
Canada sunk his teeth into his lower lip, drawing blood.
So selfish. Coward and selfish. His brother was lying in his arms, starting to burn with fever, and he was busy feeling sorry for himself.
“I’ll help you carry him,” he said, trying to divert his mind from the conflicting whirlwind of emotions that were threatening to tear him apart. He had to be strong. For Arthur, and for Alfred.
England nodded tiredly. The fact that he didn’t try to protest spoke volumes about how exhausted he was.
Together, they lifted America’s body, groaning a little at the weight, and started carrying him to their camp. America didn’t react at the movement, his head flopping uselessly against England’s chest. His brother had never been so still, so silent, pale as a ghost. It was so wrong.
Canada felt sick to his stomach. He wanted to burst again into tears, but one glance at England’s stony face, at his eyes dark with regret, made him realize that it wasn’t the moment. England had already enough to worry about, besides – he didn’t deserve to be comforted.
Nobody stopped them as they neared England’s tent, they all seemed to be busy watching Washington’s demise. There was nowhere they could go to escape the loud cheering of the soldiers, however.
Canada’s stomach was churning, his head spinning. He briefly wondered if that was how his brother had felt in York, he recalled his tears and the shaky arms holding him.
But it was worse, for America had no actual fault in his soldiers’ actions, he didn’t know what they would have done. Canada did. Canada did, and could only lower his brother’s limp body on the cot, place a damp cloth on his forehead to try to lower the fever.
He wanted to burst into tears as America started tossing and turning on the sheets, moaning in pain – but England was watching them, his eyes dull and heavy with sorrow. Matthew couldn’t let him see how broken he was.
So Canada swallowed the tears and clenched his free hand in a fist until he could feel his nails break the skin.
He wished he could be the one writhing in pain on the cot.
America could feel the fire coursing through his veins, his whole body burning as people screamed in fear and rage, as the soldiers cheered loudly watching their enemies humiliated. He wanted to crush them, to stop them from destroying with meticulous care everything he was so proud of, but all he could do was moan in pain as the agony ate every nerve of his body.
He wanted to be strong – he had sworn to be strong – but couldn’t stop the whimpers from seeping through his clenched lips as his body throbbed in tune with his too loud heartbeat.
Then came the water. It was only a few drops at first, a damp cloth placed by trembling, small hands on his forehead, but soon the wind gained strength and the flimsy raindrops turned into a storm. He trembled on his cot, clutching tightly a small hand, as the fury of the elements hit the city, drowning the fires and numbing the agony in his body. Finally, as the rain started to abate, he was able to fall asleep, lulled to unconsciousness by a gentle hand that kept soothingly running through his hair.
Later, America woke up to a morning sunray seeping in through the flaps of the tent to land on his face. He groaned, rolling on his side to try to ignore the discomfort and drift back to sleep, and that was when he suddenly realized that it wasn’t his tent – the cot was harder than his.
America jerked to a sitting position, letting a blanket pool at his waist, suddenly completely awake. The abrupt movement brought a tingle of discomfort in his tired muscles, he was feeling unpleasantly sore the way he would if he had overexerted himself in training the previous day, but he didn’t remember training. Or the previous day, actually.
A small whine at his left caught America’s attention before he could examine the unfamiliar tent he was in.
Canada was curled on a chair beside the cot, his uniform crumpled and his wavy hair a mess.
“Al?” the boy moaned sleepily as he straightened up, rubbing his eyes in a childish manner. He would’ve looked adorable, if it weren’t for the purple bags under his eyes or the way his skin was waxen and his usually rosy lips completely devoid of colour.
“Hey, Mattie,” greeted America, unsure of what to do.
His voice was raspy, and his mouth and throat felt dry. And why was he with Canada when…
His eyes widened as the memories hit him. Washington. The Capitol in flames, then the President’s Mansion. He had lost the battle, and England had claimed his price for the victory.
At the same time, Canada awakened fully.
“Al!” he gasped, jumping to his feet as the little colour left was drained from his face.
He put a knee on the cot and bent over his brother, but froze with his hands hovering over America’s shoulders, unsure of what to do.
“Al, are you—” Canada stopped and lowered his head, chewing his lower lip.
America realized that he had tightened his fists over the blankets.
“I’m fine,” he said automatically, forcing himself to loosen his hold.
Entire buildings of Washington, buildings he had been immensely proud of, were nothing but a heap of ashes.
Part of him wanted to snap at Canada to leave him alone, for he was one of those responsible – but he wasn’t. Not really.
“I’m fine,” America tried to repeat, but his words were warped into a small cough.
Canada jumped from the cot as if head been scalded, but a moment later he was back, a cup in his hands.
“Sorry, you must be horribly thirsty, I—”
America tore the cup from his brother’s hold and drank its whole content in a big gulp, ignoring Canada’s alarmed expression at his action.
“Alfred! You shouldn’t—”
The cold water felt soothing against America’s raw throat, relieving his papery mouth and tongue.
“Thanks. I needed that,” he said, placing the empty cup on the nightstand.
Canada’s eyes followed the movement of his hands before snapping back to America’s face. He was wringing his hands.
“You really shouldn’t be up!” he fretted, his eyes wide. “You need to—”
America sighed.
“Matthew, I’m fine,” he said stiffly, rolling his eyes at his little brother’s ridiculous overprotective tendencies. “Really, I am.”
Canada looked about to protest, but America shot him a grin.
“Oh…” the younger nation muttered, lowering his head.
A heavy silence fell between them. America kept looking at his younger brother as he fidgeted with his hands. He wanted to say something, but his mind was empty, everything felt hollow. All he could focus on were the cities burning – York, and then Washington. Alfred wanted to be sick, and at the same time he wanted to talk to Matthew, but the ghosts of the flames hung heavy between them.
Nobody said anything.
Canada had his head bowed, and his hands were fidgeting – his fingers opening and closing, the nails running over the pale skin of his wrists.
Outside the tent, British soldiers were speaking. Somebody was yelling orders, somebody else answered. A horse neighed in the distance.
America realized that he had to be inside the British camp – England and Canada had most likely brought him there after he had passed out. Somehow, America expected them to leave him to rot on the ground, but now he realized how utterly ridiculous the notion was – for how angry England and Canada could be, they were still his brothers. They would have never done something like that to him. Just like he wouldn’t have done it to them.
America suddenly realized that he didn’t know how much time had passed and snapped his eyes back to Canada to ask him, but what he saw made his blood run cold.
Canada was still looking down, his hands fidgeting – his nails carving red paths on the tender skin of his wrists. He hadn’t broken the skin yet, but America could tell he was close.
“Hey, stop that,” he said softly, taking a hold of his brother’s wrists and gently forcing them apart.
Canada raised his head, blinking in confusion, then blushed when he realized what he had been caught doing.
“Sorry,” he muttered, lowering his head in shame. “I’m… I’m sorry.”
America knew that he wasn’t talking about his wrists.
‘It’s okay,’ America wanted to say, because Matthew looked so little and fragile, so lost, his face pale and his lilac eyes wide. However, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. For how much he wished he could just leave everything behind… it wasn’t okay. He couldn’t just ignore what had happened, the pain they both had had to endure.
“I’m sorry too,” he said instead, far more quietly than he was used to.
Canada shook his head violently. When he raised his eyes, America could see the tears he was trying to suppress glistening at the corners.
“No, don’t! This isn’t okay, I—I hurt you, there was no need for it, we had already won and instead we burned down all the buildings, and—”
America interrupted Canada’s rant by wrapping his arms around the trembling body, forcing him to sit on the edge of the cot.
“I did that too. I let my men burn York. Please, Mattie. Don’t… don’t blame yourself.”
The body was stiff in his arms.
“How… how can you not be angry?” Canada whispered in a small voice, then swallowed. “I—I was so very angry…”
America sighed.
“So am I,” he said truthfully, “But I also know that it was your duty. You could have done nothing to stop this, Mattie. It’s just… We’re nations.” He found himself thinking of England’s words. “We’ve got to do what we’ve got to do. Our personal feelings don’t matter.”
He didn’t want to be angry anymore, or to wake up from nightmarish dreams in which he heard his little brother struggle to breathe as blood started filling his lungs. He didn’t want to feel guilty anymore. Now that Canada had had his revenge, Alfred had hoped that things would just get back to normal… but he recognized how foolish and naïve he had been.
“Please don’t blame yourself,” he repeated, burying his head against his little brother’s hair. This time, the smell was right – light and flowery, just as he remembered – and the texture soft.
“Al…” Canada was interrupted by a barely restrained sob.
America found himself wondering for how much time he had held back the tears.
“Come here,” he muttered, tugging at the small body that was still sitting stiffly on the edge of the cot.
Canada stayed still for a moment before his resolution shattered, leaving him to crumble into America’s waiting arms.
“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, wrapping his own trembling arms around America’s frame as he rested his head against his brother’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”
America rocked gently back and forth as tears started falling on his shirt. He wished somebody had held him that way after York, so he wasn’t going to let Canada go through the turmoil alone.
“It’s going to be alright,” he said, as much to as himself as to his little brother.
It had to be all right. Maybe they could stop fighting, there were no more reasons for that. England and Canada had had their revenge, and he needed to focus on rebuilding. It was time for them to leave the grudges and bloodied memories of the war behind. In spite of his last loss, America was willing to do that. For the sake of his people, and his brothers.
Even if things would never be the same, he wanted to at least try to rekindle their bond.
Canada regained his composure earlier than America would have thought.
“What now?” he asked in a small voice, detaching himself from America’s arms.
He looked still pale and dejected, and America was sure that he hadn’t actually calmed down yet, but there was determination shining in his eyes.
“I don’t know,” America answered truthfully, “Am I a prisoner here? If not, I have to go back to my army.”
“You’re not a prisoner!” Canada was quick to reassure him, his eyes widening. “We just brought you here because you needed to recover! But…”
His expression faltered, a flicker of doubt passing through his eyes.
“Yeah, I suppose it’s not up to you,” America said lightly. “Where’s Art—England, I mean?”
The name of his former caretaker brought a sour taste in his mouth. While he couldn’t stay mad at Canada, the British Empire was a completely different matter. He was the one responsible for everything. Both his and Canada’s injuries. America felt his blood boil at the thought of the man’s stony face, his hands were itching to close around the slender neck. England wouldn’t be so cocky, then.
At the same time, Alfred’s mind couldn’t help but flash back to the image of Arthur’s dark eyes, to the sorrow hidden in the green depths. When he had first rebelled against him, he had seen England only as a tyrannical ruler, his fight against him as a selfish attempt to keep hold of his power. Now… in the few years of his independence, Alfred had started to realize more and more how complicated being a nation was. How little their personal will mattered over the needs of their people. York had been his last, harsh wake-up call. Arthur was good at hiding his true feelings, but Alfred couldn’t help but wonder what he truly felt each time they had to hurt each other. If he had ever been as passionate about fighting as he had shown.
A part of Alfred wanted to mend the bridge between him and Arthur – but the other still felt resentful at his actions, hurt by the fact that England hadn’t even bothered to keep an eye on the damage he had caused. Alfred didn’t know what he wanted.
“He was summoned by his general, he left a note,” answered Canada, tearing him away from his thoughts. “He was here until then, though. He stayed awake the whole time.”
A strange feeling of warmth mixed with surprise blossomed in Alfred’s chest. So Arthur had stayed. It shouldn’t have mattered that much, but somehow it did.
As if on cue, he heard the rustle of the fabric as the flaps of the tent were opened.
America tensed, his head snapping to the source of the noise, as Canada straightened beside him.
England’s form emerged from the fabric.
He had changed his uniform from the last time America had seen him, this one was clean and only slightly creased, but aside from that, the man didn’t look any better. If anything, he looked even more worn out. His hair was a limp mess, the pasty skin of his face marked by deep lines, and his eyes dull. There was no energy in his steps, he was almost dragging his feet, and his shoulders were slightly slumped.
As soon as he caught sight of America, however, England froze on the spot, his whole body tensing.
“You’re awake,” he said, sounding as if he couldn’t fully believe his words.
“Yep.”
America tried to smile, but the muscles of his face seemed frozen, and all he could manage was a grimace.
England blinked a few times.
“Are… are you alright?” he asked, taking a few, unsure steps in America’s direction.
“As well as I can be.” The words came out of America’s mouth harsher than he had intended.
England recoiled, his eyes widening, but a moment later he regained control of himself.
“I’m glad,” he said stiffly, his features unreadable.
America wanted to grab him by his shoulders and shake him until he could get some sort of human expression from him. He was tired of fighting, he wanted to make things right again… but how could he do that if England didn’t even try to apologize?
A heavy silence filled the tent. Beside him, America heard Canada hold his breath.
“So… how long was I out?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.
It wasn’t exactly what he had meant to ask, but America had never liked silence. It made him feel young and powerless, brought him to notice the glimmer of raw regret and pain that England couldn’t completely hide from his eyes.
England’s body relaxed slightly.
“Almost two days,” he answered evenly, walking to an empty chair next to a bureau. “It’s the 26th.”
The man’s movements were careful when he sat down, but his body looked heavy.
America nodded, not unsure of what to say. Why was it always so difficult to talk to England? He could see regret written in every line of the man’s face. Why couldn’t he just apologize, and let bygones be bygones?
“I should get back to my army,” America found himself saying instead. “Where…”
“You can get back to Washington,” answered England, “We left it after the storm. I’ll get you a horse, and you can leave the camp. Nobody will stop you, most are occupied trying to repair our ships, and they won’t recognize you as an American in civilian clothes.”
At those words, America suddenly noticed that he wasn’t wearing his ruined uniform anymore, but had been changed into a pair of simple green trousers and a white shirt. Common clothes, not very elaborated but the fabric felt of good quality. And they fit him surprisingly well – but England knew his measurements, after all. He had had clothes made for him numerous time before, and even if those memories felt like they belonged to a completely different life, it hadn’t been that long ago, America hadn’t grown up since the last time.
He wanted to thank England for the small courtesy, instead found himself nodding stiffly, unsure of how to behave in front of the wall of forced indifference posed by the older nation.
Much to America’s surprise, Canada was the one who broke the silence.
“You can’t just make him leave!” he blurted out. When the boy turned to him, America saw that his eyes were glimmering with determination. “He’s injured, he needs to rest! He can’t just—”
“But I’m fine, Mattie,” America interrupted him, puzzled. “See?”
Ignoring his brother’s spluttered protests, America placed his feet on the ground and stood up in a fluid motion, stretching his back. His sore muscles protested at the movement, but he felt steady on his feet.
Canada’s words suddenly died down.
“Oh,” he muttered, his eyes widening as they scanned over America’s body, who answered with a grin. “Oh, yes. Of course you’re fine.”
His voice had an odd intonation, but America couldn’t place it, nor could he understand what might have caused the hazy, far-away look in his little brother’s eyes. He almost looked like he was reliving a memory.
“Hey, Mattie, what’s—”
“You recovered quickly,” England said unexpectedly, “I’m… I’m relieved to see that.”
“Of course I did,” America answered immediately, puzzled. “We are nations, we heal quickly… besides, I’m strong! I’m totally gonna kick your ass next time, so you’d better be prepared!”
He wondered whether England and Canada could hear how fake his enthusiasm sounded. Everything felt sort of disconnected, hollow.
“Of course,” England repeated after him, almost in a whisper.
There was a strange, haunted look in his eyes, and his body was stiff. When America turned to Canada, the boy offered him a slight smile, but the features of his face were tight.
“Guys?” America asked tentatively.
He didn’t know what was going on, and he didn’t like it. The atmosphere inside the tent had suddenly turned heavy.
“Matthew didn’t believe me when I told him you would recover quickly. Even I didn’t think it would be this quick…” England said tiredly. “But it’s alright, he was merely worried.”
Canada took a sharp intake of breath. For some reason, he looked angry at England’s words.
“It hurt that much because it’s your capital,” the man went on, ignoring his colony, “And because it’s your first time. But the damage was only to public buildings, so it’s not that bad. And you are strong. You’ll recover fully in no time, and next time won’t be this hard. You’ll get used to it.”
The words made America’s blood run cold. He could tell that England had meant to reassure him, they were supposed to be comforting… but all his mind could focus on was the thoughtless certainty they had been uttered with. ‘Next time’. America didn’t want to have a ‘next time’ of that. He had thought the nightmare was over, yet England had talked about it as if he had been making an innocent observation about the weather.
America suddenly found himself feeling terribly young as he wondered how many times England had seen his country devastated by the actions of other nations – how many times he had been injured and stepped on by those he was supposed to call friends, family. He wasn’t sure he wanted an answer.
“There won’t be a next time,” he said stubbornly, locking eyes with England. “I won’t allow it.”
The man didn’t answer, but his eyes said everything, shimmering with unspoken emotions. Pity, regret. Maybe even a small glint of envy. America was the one who diverted his gaze first, looking at Canada for support.
His little brother looked pale and tired, his face tense. Still worried.
“I’m fine, Mattie,” sighed America, “How many times do I have to tell you?”
Why couldn’t he believe him? America knew that he was feeling guilty for burning Washington, but Canada had always been able to tell whether he was lying or not, so he should have realized that his words were sincere. Why, then? Was his guilt so bad, or…
Oh.
OH!
America’s eyes widened as he finally realized what Canada’s hesitance to believe him implied. He unconsciously brought a hand to his mouth as his stomach plummeted.
“M—Mattie? How long did it take you to recover after York?”
America should have known. England himself had told him, that nightmarish morning, Canada was still a colony, and as such more vulnerable, slower to heal. And he had been so badly hurt, far worse than America…
His brother’s features turned into a mask of stone.
“It’s not it, Al,” he said stubbornly, his eyes dark. “I’m just worried that you’ll overexert yourself, you aren’t completely healed yet, you won’t recover if you push yourself too hard. And you always do that.”
Canada could be a good liar when he put his mind to it. Sometimes he even managed to fool England. But for how excellent a liar could be, he was still a liar. And at that moment, America knew that his little brother was lying.
“Mattie…” he whispered, his voice heavy with sorrow, his stomach churning.
“Matthew, go to the stables and get a horse for Alfred,” England’s voice cut in unexpectedly.
Both his younger brothers turned towards him.
“But Mr England…” Canada tried to protest, but the man’s expression was stern, his voice unwavering.
“Matthew. Do as I tell you. Go and get a horse for your brother.”
Canada looked torn, his eyes wide on his bloodless face, his fists clenched. The British Empire’s voice, however, left no space for bargaining.
The boy lowered his head and started edging to the entrance of the tent, his steps slow and reluctant. Just before stepping out, he cast a pleading gaze behind his shoulders.
“Please, Mr England…”
“Go.”
America didn’t utter a single sound until the flaps of the tent fluttered closed behind Canada’s small frame.
“So?” he asked then, turning frantically towards England.
There was an only reason he could have sent Canada away: whatever he was about to tell him, it was bad.
“Are you really sure you want to know?” asked England, his eyes sharp.
America nodded stubbornly.
“I need to know.”
So he could understand. Mourn. And finally, get over that nightmare. But first, he needed to know everything.
A tired sigh seeped through England’s lips as the man briefly closed his eyes, collecting himself. When he opened them again, they were so full of raw emotions that America almost couldn’t bear to look at him.
“He was unconscious for three days. It took other ten days before he could get out of bed, and a month until he was fully healed.”
The words hit America like a punch in the gut, stealing all the air from his lungs. His legs wavered, he collapsed on the edge of the cot to avoid falling down.
“A… a month?!” he gasped.
His head was spinning, the blood pounding in his ears as his wide eyes frantically searched England’s face for a sign that he was lying. There was none, the man’s features were drawn and heavy with grief, his bright eyes had a haunted look.
America wondered what he was thinking about, if he was still keeping something from him. He wondered how Arthur had felt those night at his little brother’s bedside, powerless before his pain.
“A month,” whispered England. “He’s just a colony, Alfred. Not as quick to heal as we are, nor as strong. Everything affects him more than he would affect me or you. He was very badly injured, he had lost a lot of blood, and his lungs were damaged. A human would have died, or needed several months to recover if he survived in a stroke of luck.”
America could only nod stiffly, not trusting his voice. This time, he did nothing to break the heavy silence that had enveloped them.
“You do understand now, don’t you?” England said in the end, softly, his voice laced with grief. “Why I had to let my men and Canada’s soldiers burn your capital. I would have never wanted to hurt you, Alfred… but your men had to get the message loud and clear. Canada isn’t yours to take, and any interference won’t be tolerated.”
The man took a deep breath, lowering his head.
“I’m sorry you had to go through this, Alfred. I’m really, terribly sorry. And I’m also aware that my words mean nothing: if I have to, I’ll do this again.”
America wanted very badly to deny England’s words, to point out how barbarian and unneeded his actions had been. But… deep in his mind, in some sort of twisted logic, he did understand. He wanted to deny it, he didn’t like how powerless England’s reasoning made him feel, but he couldn’t ignore what he knew to be true.
At the same time, however, America couldn’t completely agree with him.
“I… I won’t do that again,” he said, clenching his fists. His wavering voice gathered strength with each word. “I’ll never, ever hurt Matthew again, I swear.”
The smile England offered him didn’t reach his eyes.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Alfred.”
The man’s eyes were dull, he looked frail and tired, defeated. The sight of the nation he had once looked up to so dejected made America’s stomach twist.
“I’m not making any promise,” he said resolutely, “I know that I can’t force my people to do anything, you already told me. But you also told me that I can influence them, show them the way. And I’ll do anything in my power to stop them from hurting Matthew again. We’re not powerless.”
England looked surprised at his words, but clearly not convinced.
“You’re young, Alfred,” he said after a few moments of silence, shaking his head. “This seems nice, but it’s not how it works.”
‘Yes, it is,’ America wanted to retort, but he didn’t want to start another argument with Arthur, either. The war was still too fresh and too raw.
“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he said instead. His voice came out strangely soft, almost childish, but he ignored it and went on. “There’s no more point in this war. I have been chased away from Canada, and you have managed to humiliate me. Can’t we just… stop?”
“It’s not that easy,” England retorted immediately, as pessimistic as ever. His furrowed brow, however, told America that he was considering his proposal. “But you’re right. I’ve lost a lot of men in Europe, carrying out another war right now it’s pointless. Of course, we can’t just stop like that. But I’ll talk to my generals.”
America nodded.
“And I’ll talk to mine.”
“It won’t be immediate,” England had already started warning him, “There will probably be some more offensives in between. But everybody is tired of this war, I think we can manage.”
“Don’t sweat it,” said America, jumping back to his feet. His sore muscles protested at the movement, but he ignored the discomfort. “I can take a few fights. And you’d better watch your back, because I’m gonna kick your ass this time.”
England snorted.
“In your dreams.”
He still looked exhausted, but his eyes weren’t as empty as before, and his body seemed to have a little more energy when he stood up.
“Where…” America started saying, turning to the entrance of the tent, just as Canada stepped in.
The boy looked pale and tense, but after a quick glance at England and America, he seemed to relax slightly.
“The horse is outside,” he said, “He’s already saddled, and I’ve left you some water and something to eat. But you really—”
America stopped Canada by clamping a hand over his shoulder.
“Thank you, Mattie. But now I have to go, really. My people need me.”
Canada looked about to protest, but bit his lower lip, nodding.
“Okay. You’re right,” he whispered softly.
“Take care,” said America, “Both of you. You need to be at your best, or beating you won’t be any fun, don’t you think?”
Both Canada and England answered with a strained smile, but a smile nonetheless.
In a sudden impulse, Alfred bent down and pressed a swift kiss to Canada’s forehead.
The boy’s eyes widened comically, eliciting a small chuckle from America. As he straightened up, his eyes caught England’s.
“Take care of him,” he mouthed.
England gave a minute nod in response.
‘You don’t have to tell me, you git,’ America imagined him saying, ‘I will.’
America turned his back to his brothers and stepped out of the tent, feeling light and heavy at the same time.
He had believed his words when he had spoken to England, but as he neared Washington’s ruins, his mind flashing back to the fires and Canada’s injured body, he couldn’t help but think that changing things wouldn’t be as easy as he had made it sound. For how much Alfred wished it, there was no way to undo the damage that had been done.
Outraged whispers followed England wherever he went, seeping into his mind like a slow-acting poison.
“Barbarians.”
“Savages.”
“How could he have done something like that to such a young nation?” sighed theatrically France, “To say he claimed to care for him so much…”
“It’s simply horrifying,” whispered Spain, shaking his head. “I could never do something like that to Romano.”
England’s blood boiled with rage at their judgement.
Nobody spared a single word for the child England had held in his arms as he burned with fever and writhed in agony. Nobody gave a single thought to the days and nights he had spent at Canada’s bedside, listening to the shallow breaths and praying they wouldn’t stop. None of them knew how it had to felt to read fairy tales to the bedridden child, desperately attempting to avoid looking at his hollow eyes.
‘Besides, It’s not like you haven’t done worse!’ England wanted to scream.
But he couldn’t, for there was a kernel of truth in their words. No matter what his reasons had been, England had hurt America in a horrible way. Alfred. His little brother, his child.
Arthur longed to burst into tears and hold him to his chest, apologizing over and over.
But he was the British Empire. And the British Empire could show no weaknesses.
So he gritted his teeth and walked proudly, his back straight and his shoulders squared, as his heart mourned the two bright-eyed children who would play in front of his yard, lively and carefree.