Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

August 1783

London, England

England leaned over the table, quill in his hand, not worrying about the ink drying on the nib or the drops that it had left on the paper. He dipped the pen once more, watching the brown liquid swirl and stain the shaft of what was once a feather. Once something that carried a bird. Now it was a tool, something unliving, something to be discarded when it was no longer useful. 

He put the sharp edge to the paper and began.

People wanted to know. It was evident. People wanted to know what it felt like when he left me. However, the words wouldn’t come out. They were indescribable. Yet, through a pen to paper it is like I am floating and somebody else was writing exactly what I couldn’t say:

I can describe my feelings in two words - death and pain. Everything hurts and I wait for that sweet caress that offers a void of nothingness, a void of unnamable relief. My head is pounding from the endless tears that I have cried. Throbbing with the thoughts of what ifs, I should haves, and beratements of the disgusting unlovable creature that I have become. My eyes feel like sandpaper, every time I blink, tear ducts too far spent to do their assigned job. My jaw, sore from clenching in efforts of keeping appearance in public places. A crick in my neck from the dropping of my head when my jaw fails to keep face, if it is going to happen, it is better to hide it. Shoulders, aching from the heaving of sobs and the mental weight of what has come to pass. Arms, tired from the task of relentless pressure from too many self-aided squeezes in effort comfort and keep me together. Hands, decorated with fingernail and teeth marks, from all the fists they have been balled into. Lungs sore from the heaving screeches and screams muffled by sopping pillows, pleading with the throat for a reprieve. Stomach, twisted in knots of confusion at the amounts of food and sweets consumed in efforts of mental stabilization.  Hips, knees, ankles, and feet all sore and seemingly filled with sand, aching, dull. The action of movement proving to be almost too much for them to bear.

Then, there’s the heart, an entity all its own. It begs for the relief of past kings, a single chop of a blade to the neck and no more did the world they have to face. Instead, it sits, throbbing, pounding, scratched and bleeding while it begs for mercy. At least, when creatures from Lucifer's domain themselves take a stake to the heart, it is their last. My heart, however, twists and begs for relief. Words and condolences from loved ones and others alike play the roll of bandages, patching up the bleeding and the tears. For a moment, that is. Until the thoughts and emotions come back. The bandages are torn off with agonizing slow motions, taking more flesh in their wake and leaving the weak, real and imaginative, organ to writhe. Then the process is repeated, again and again till the whole body is praying, praying for a death that only the reaper can give. Not the death from the bottle or the pill, but real death. Death without afterlife or consequences. Yet, death never pays a visit but instead sends his cousin, pain. It is a pain that visits my bedside with pets and jabs. Death never comes yet it seems as if pain is here to stay.

“Lord Kirkland, there are people here to see you.” 

The voice jolted the Empire from his misery. Staring down at the ink drying on parchment he looked up at the messenger. It was just after supper, which he had once again turned down. England would not be surprised if the cook had simply stopped making his portions. These days he only had stomach for one single meal, and often he threw up what little he ate. It was soon. Soon he would have to sail to Paris to watch the ratification. At least Matthew was here in London to keep everyone busy. 

“Tell them that I am not taking visitors this evening. Tell them I apologize, but I find myself under the weather.” he muttered. An uncomfortable silence filled the room before the servant bowed and closed the door behind him. England stared at the desk in front of him. He was so tired. So sick of everything. Hunching forward in his chair he heaved a sigh, straightening when a key next to his quill caught his attention. Yes, that would help the exhaustion. Picking up the instrument carefully he bent over to unlock the drawer that was at his right hip.

Fighting with the stubborn lock for a brief moment, he let out a grunt of approval when it gave way. Pulling out the drawer he scanned the collection of quills, inkwells and excess parchment, all situated around a single bottle.  A large bottle at that. Lifting it from the drawer, England closed and locked the drawer once more, rolling the bottle between his fingertips. 

Yes, that would help him sleep, for a good long while. Laudanum. Enhanced with Magic. Yes, that would certainly help. 

Placing the key once more in its place on the desk he shrugged out of his coat, careful of the bottle he began to undress. Nothing but the shuffling and whispers of fabric filled the room as England prepared for bed. Reaching for his nightshirt, he pulled it over his head with half-hearted tugs when the thick white fabric caught his hair. There we go. The servants would be in later to douse the candles.

Pulling back the covers on his bed with one hand he sized up the bottle again. Yes, that would help. Sitting on the bed carefully he wiggled the cork out of the bottle top. "Cheers." he announced flatly to the empty room, pressing the bottle to his lips he tipped his head back.  A whole bottle of magic strengthened laudanum would help him right along.

*** 

September 3, 1783

Paris, France 

Hotel d’York

America thought that France would be here. Not that this was his peace treaty at all. In fact, he’d actively created a problem for it in the months after Yorktown. Being swiftly abandoned had been a surprise as France had immediately taken his navy to harry British holdings in the West Indies. He’d taken several islands, America knew, while Spain was busy doing the same and taking West Florida. 

America shifted, hooking his fingers in the elaborate knot tied at his throat. France hadn’t betrayed him, not exactly. What he had done was violate the spirit of the treaty, especially when he started negotiating a separate peace. He was supposed to be on his side, but he’d taken his own. Maybe that was the way things had to be. It wasn’t particularly fair though. Ultimately, they had worked something out with England in the end. Spain had a few problems with it, as did France, but that would have to wait. After all, England had already made peace with France.

Today, it was time to make peace between him and England.

Waiting for the British delegation to arrive wore on him. He knew that England had arrived, France had put him in Versailles. He’d offered a spot to America too, but he’d refused. He didn’t really want to talk to France right now. Not when he was about to make official what they’d done two years ago. England was going to give him his independence. It would be real. They would both be nations.

Equals.

He’d not laid eyes on England in two years. What would he think of him now? The hotel that had been chosen was in a fashionable part of Paris. It was serious. It felt important that it would be a separate place than France’s palace. It may be France’s soil, but this was his space. It was going to be historic because of him, because of what he’d accomplished.

America picked up the paper, ignoring the raised eyebrows from his delegation. He wanted to read it over one more time.

Blah, blah, blah, America thought, reading over the titles that were laid around King George’s name. He took up several lines of the document! He skipped over them, finding the terms that set off on the rest. 

...to forget all past Misunderstandings and Differences that have unhappily interrupted the good Correspondence and Friendship which they mutually wish to restore; and to establish such beneficial and satisfactory intercourse between the two countries upon the ground of reciprocal Advantages and mutual Convenience as may promote and secure to both perpetual Peace and Harmony...

America thought that sounded good. He knew that England’s people saw his as valuable trading partners. It was why they were giving him so much. He could feel it now, the edges of his boundary straining against their old holdings. He was about to grow in size. He could feel it in the ache of his bones. It just had to be made official and he would stretch all the way to the Mississippi. It meant taking some land that England had claimed for Canada... but it wasn’t like Canada had occupied it alone.

He skipped over the names of all of the men who would ultimately sign. 

Article 1st. His Brittanic Majesty acknowledges that the said United States... to be free sovereign and Independent States. 

America beamed with pride to see the old words reflected back. Free. Independent. It was settled the first thing. The second article laid out his boundaries. It only needed a signature. He wondered if it would show in his body, once he gained that space. Would England notice?

The treaty continued. He’d still be able to fish off Canada’s coasts. They would pay their own debts. It would be recommended to the States that they should give back confiscated property to the Loyalists and that his government wouldn’t claim anymore. That they would have peace and release each other’s people. They would share the Mississippi. They would give back territories that were captured after the treaty was begun. That Congress and Parliament would ratify it. 

It was what pretty much everything he wanted. The only thing England had turned down was America taking Canada with him. America sat the paper back down. If Canada did show up, America planned on throwing him out. One of England’s ambassadors had offered him up at the end of the war and America had been keen on the idea. They were brothers, they should be together! Canada would still be British America, even after the treaty was signed. That didn’t mean that he deserved a spot here. 

He paced the room, back and forth. He knew it was annoying Mr. Adams and he could see Dr. Franklin looking at him over the rim of his spectacles. “America, sit down.” said John Jay, pulling out one of the chairs. America shook his head and the men gave up. 

America glanced at the mantle clock. Any minute now.

The sound of the knock and then a door opening and a servant ushering people inside made America’s heart leap into his throat.

***

Canada heaved a sigh, clutching England’s forearm. He had found England starting on his decanter of port and staring out into the gardens. Bags hung beneath the nations eyes, high cheekbones more prominent than ever. Prince George had been sending him messages, Arthur hadn’t been eating or sleeping and after the laudanum incident he had demanded that he be there for this. The weather over the country had been uncomfortably stagnant. Matthew had been worried that his presence would cause England undue stress but rather, the empire had rarely let Matthew leave his side. 

At least Canada had arrived in time to put the stopper in. If he hadn’t found the island empire drinking he would have suggested it, his caretaker would be better for it. And it was much better than the last bottle he had found in the nation's possession. His grip tightened as diplomats kept their gazes on everything but the pair. Silence swelled within the hall, only footsteps and the uncomfortable shuffle of feet against stone.  

At least the incident had been restricted to a limited group. Swallowing, Canada warred with himself over what to do as they approached the tall wooden doors at the end of the hall. A singular chair was pushed against the stone wall and it gave him an idea. Dammit. It had taken them awhile to get to the room, his brother was probably inside.

“Arthur,” He peered down at the other blonde, “Would you mind waiting? There is a chair for you. I just want to go in and make sure that they have the room ready for everything.” Canada deflated slightly as the only response he received was a tired nod and compliance. Matthew sighed, but offered a small smile before pushing against the door, opening it just enough to slip inside. He had been right, America was inside. “Good afternoon, Alfred.” he said quietly as he brother stood up. He watched the other blond’s face change expressions quickly.

America stopped pacing when the door opened, face sliding into a frown. He stepped around the table and grabbed Canada by the arm, yanking him away from the diplomats that were watching the pair of them. “If he sent you in his place I will march up to Versailles and drag him down here.” America said, jaw clenching. 

“America.” Canada frowned, yanking his arm from his brother's grasp with a frown. Dang, his strength was getting worse. “He is sitting in the hall, I wanted to make sure that everything was ready before I brought him in here. I don’t want him in here longer than necessary. The Crown Prince wants him exposed to as few stressors as possible.” He searched his brothers face. America was tense, not angry, but certainly not pleased with the current situation.

“The Crown Prince can mind his own business.” America muttered. He looked at Canada, shrugging. “Of course I’m ready. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

Matthew stared at America in annoyance. “I am certain that a few minutes more won’t hurt you.” he said flatly, crossing his arms. “It's been a rough morning. I figured that you would have a little bit of sympathy since the incident. It takes a bit to bounce back, even for a nation I suspect.” he added quietly.

“I’m fine.” America said. “He’s known about this for two years! We’ve been negotiating by letter for months! It’s not like he doesn’t know what he’s signing over. Go get him. I want this done with.” America crossed his arms, exasperation crossing his face. Both brothers looked at each other, their bodies mirroring the other.  

Matthew stared at him in disbelief.  “You have always been stubborn but I didn’t think you callus America!” He shook his head “I was certain that after France spoke with you that you would at least have the patience to work at a more respectable pace.”

“France isn’t a part of this anymore. They made their own peace.” America said. “Canada, please, I need him to come in and do this.” He reached out for Canada again, gripping him by the shoulder, not out of anger this time, but pleading. “I want him to look me in the eye when I become a nation.”

“France isn’t…” Amethyst eyes widened. “He...he didn't tell you?” Matthew whispered horrified. 

“Tell me what?”

Canada looked around, nervous. “America. Listen to me.” he said slowly, “I cannot believe that no one informed you. Master Adams, Dr. Franklin? I was certain they had been informed about the delicacy of the situation right now.” 

“It’s delicate because he’s been dragging his heels for two years.” Canada reached out, gripping him hard around the forearm. His fingers dug into America’s coat sleeve, America looked down. What was going on?

Matthew gestured around the room. “About all of this... England... because all of this... England…” He inhaled, swallowing.  “I am... Alfred... Alfred...because of all of this... Arthur tried to kill himself.”

America stared at him, arms loosening. The words didn’t seem right. Nations couldn’t just end themselves. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?” Canada opened his mouth, no words, just trying to figure out what more to say. America brushed past him. He’d said England was just outside the door, right? He could hear Canada behind him, telling him to stop. Grabbing onto his sleeve trying to hold him inside but he wasn’t strong enough. America pushed through the door, Canada squeezing through as he closed it behind him. Humans on one side. Nations on the other. He could see England there, sitting in the chair, his head lowered. He was staring at his hands. America edged closer. To him, England felt like a grenade, one where the wick had burned out and one couldn’t be sure if the powder had gotten wet or if it was likely to explode. 

“England.” America said. He still didn’t move. America thought about kneeling, moving into England’s eyeline. But he wasn’t going to kneel in front of England, no matter what he’d done to himself. Instead, he put a hand on his shoulder. He wanted to shake him, make him see sense. Tried to kill himself? He couldn’t believe it. “Are you sure you’re England, you’re not acting like him at all.” he said, adding a little humor to his voice. If he could get England to look at him, even if it was in anger, that was at least something.

Matthew followed Alfred from the room, hot on his heels. Dammit, of course he would try to talk to Arthur. Shaking his head he took a deep breath. “Arthur. I think we should go inside now. The meeting should start soon.” Matthew laid his hand on the empire’s arm, shooting an angry look at his brother. England continued to stare down at his hands, eyes flicking to the polished boots in front of him. The island nation took deep breath, exhaling slowly. 

“Excuse us, United States. We shall meet you inside.” he stood up quickly, stiffly. He allowed Matthew to lead him to the room. 

“Don’t be late America.” Matthew said flatly ,all but pulling the other into the room. He would speak with Alfred later. This would not drag out any longer than it had to.

America frowned after him. Canada didn’t have to be here at all, this had nothing to do with him. Not for lack of trying of course. If only England’s ambassador had kept his word. Canada wouldn’t be standing next to England right now. He’d be standing next to him.

Damn it! Why was he thinking about Canada! He should be talking to England. Back in the room, he stepped over towards Mr. Adams, who was frowning at Canada’s presence as well. “Can you get him out of here?” America said, when he walked past him. He could see that Canada wasn’t going to listen to him, when did he get so pushy?! America sat down next to Dr. Franklin, the old man peering at him over his spectacles.

Mr. Adams cleared his throat, casting an appraising glance at the two diplomats on the other side of the table. “Excuse me, Mr. Hartley, Mr. Oswald. As this signing of the treaty is between the United States of America and the United Kingdom of Great Britain is it really appropriate for a colony to be here? Especially one that should, by right of proximity, belong to the United States. However, as we have been generous in our terms in regards to Canada... Do you wish to insult us by parading him in front of our delegation?”

The British representatives looked uncomfortable. Canada stared at America, his look hard. 

“I will only remain in this negotiation if Canada stays.” England spoke up. Thanking the Canadian he took a seat. “I have been immensely ill as of late I would prefer to have the strength and support of a family member as I deal with a room of foreign delegations.” England’s tone was firm. He looked up across the table at Adams. “If you wish to complete these negotiations in a respectable measure of time than I suggest allowances be made for my family member.” He clasped his hands over the chair arms, his last request not a request at all. A term of the treaty now. The tension in the room thickened. 

“Are you kidding me? Foreign?” America stood up, shoving the paper across the table. “Sign that and then I’ll be foreign!” 

America wanted to hit him, shake him, whatever it would take to get him back to normal. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He placed both hands on the table, trying to keep them from shaking. He looked at England, at the thinness of his face, the paleness of his skin. He looked frail in a way America had never seen before. If England hadn’t been so stubborn... if he’d listened... if he’d... so many things could have gone differently. Now England had the gall to act like America had done this to him. They were in this together. England was going to take some responsibility.

“This isn’t a negotiation anymore. Just sign the treaty.” he said, the rest of what he wanted to say could wait until they were alone, when Canada wasn’t hovering by England’s elbow. If England wanted to scream, yell, anything else, he would give as good as he got. England stared at the parchment lying on the polished surface of the table. The dark ink scrawling the words of their arrangement. The arrangement that would recognize his sovereignty. Just these signatures and then it would be ratified. “Sign the paper, England.” he said. England lay a hand on top of the paper, as though he were trying to feel the words rather than read them.

“Yes foreign.” England repeated the nation's words back at him before gesturing for a quill. He didn’t need to read the document, he knew what the disgusting thing said. “And please, while we may be agreeing to amity between our governments, you and I are not on amicable terms so do refrain from using such familiar language when addressing me, Sir.” He blinked, once, twice and then his shoulders stiffened, as if coming to a dissatisfying conclusion. Taking the quill handed to him with a soft thank you, England rolled the quill between his fingers for but a second before signing the document with no movements to spare, tapping the quill at the end of the signature with an air of finality.  

Gesturing for the document and quill to be taken England stood up, eyes finally falling on the blond nation across the table from him. Hand resting over the coat buttons at his waist he nodded. Eyes, green as the island he represented, focused on America. “Foreign relations.” he repeated cooly. “I introduce myself, The United Kingdom of Great Britain, to the United States of America.” Pressing his lips tight he fell silent for a moment. “It is always a day for the books when one nation meets another. Dealings with strangers is akin to treading open waters. For that is what you are to me, Sir. A stranger.”

America stared at him, words flowing through his mind, but none coming to his lips. How could he do this? Treat him this way after all that they’d been through. Just like that, England was going to pretend that they didn’t know each other. As if England wasn’t sure if America was going to cheat him in trade or some other such nonsense. The paper slid back across the table and America picked up his own quill. He could smell the wax heating, the diplomats waiting to affix their seals and make the document official. 

He looked at England, trying to see some hint of the person that he would sit on the shore and wait for, hoping for a glimpse of white sails on the horizon. He didn’t even see the nation that ignored him, demeaned him, threatened him with total destruction.

This wasn’t the England that he knew. 

America looked away, down at the paper that made it all real. The war would officially be done. He would be free. He signed, passing it to the others. Signatures, seals. He watched England through it all, holding his gaze. England wanted a response, America could see it in the furrow between his eyebrows. 

“You can take this literally all you want. ‘Forget all past misunderstandings and differences’ and all that. I’m not going to forget.” he said, feeling that agitated energy rising again. He stood up straight, pulling himself to his full height. He felt broader in the shoulder, his jacket suddenly too tight. “You won’t be able to look away from me forever. I’m going to make sure of that.”

Running his tongue over his teeth, England watched America as he spoke. By the end of the new nation’s impromptu speech he was shaking his in amusement. “I have heard those words before, boy.” He sized America up, was he always that tall? “If you’re going to make such a grandiose statement to me, of all nations in the world, I suggest you follow through.” His lip curled before pasting a smile to face. “Now I take it we are done here.” he said shortly. His diplomats returned to their feet and fled the room. Turning to look at Canada with a brow raised in question, the colony nodded quickly, color rising in his cheeks. 

“Yes. I was informed just before we entered the room.” Matthew nodded. “Vicente was directed to be in your guest chambers for the evening unless otherwise i-informed.” 

He gave a small smile as England patted his shoulder. “Good job Matthew.” He smiled praising the boy before taking a deep breath, continuing to look at him as he said, “Oh, dear me. I must apologize, for it seems you already lost my eyes, my attentions, United States, that did not take long at all did it?” 

America tore through things that he could say. England was trying to hurt him, inflict any kind of wound he could. Make America feel small. A facade. If what Canada had said was true... it was a defense. He called France names all the time, but they were still... well, not friends, but whatever it was they were. 

America could hear the humans shuffling out. The doors closed behind them with a soft click. It was just the three of them now. America stepped around the table, coming closer to England’s smug face. Canada slid into the space between them, but America could still see England over his shoulder. 

“America don’t.” hissed Canada, trying to stop him from coming any closer.

“I’m not going to hurt him.”

“You already--”

“Canada.” America interrupted. The two brothers stared at each other, the message was silent, but he knew that Canada understood. I need to talk to him. Canada looked torn, tearing his gaze away from America’s to look at England. America did too, England was determinedly not looking at him again. He looked at the floor, the walls, the furniture, as though America were a stain that he needed to politely ignore for the sake of decency. The desire to punch him in the face rose again, but then he remembered what Canada had told him. 

England tried to end his life, even though they couldn’t die. A knock on the door broke the smothering silence. Mr. Oswald put his head back into the room, “Forgive me, but I need to speak to Mr. Williams for a moment.”

Canada lay a hand on England’s arm. “I’ll be right back. Why don’t you sit.” He took him by the elbow as if he were an old man, guiding him into the chair. He looked at America one more time, his look pleading. Don’t hurt him.

I won’t.

The door closed behind him leaving America and England in the room. The air seemed stagnant, smothering. America tugged at his cravat, trying to loosen the folds of fabric that were too tightly wound around his neck. 

“You’re wearing the French style.” England said. America turned and looked at him.

“I didn’t think homespun would be all that appropriate,” he said, “Although it would probably be more comfortable.” Small talk. It felt strange. After all that England implied before, America decided to go along with it. Wait for a chance to ask. 

Crossing his arms England stared at the long table in the middle of the meeting room. Ankles crossing the nation sat rigidly against the back of the chair. “Is there a reason that you are staying inside of the room?” England sighed, crossing his arms. For a brief moment he continued to stare at the table, finally he turned his eyes on the new nation. “Is there?”

“Well, for one, this is the place I have rented. I’m sure Canada will take you back to Versailles.” America pulled out one of the vacated chairs and sat down. England was seated on the adjacent side, if America stretched out his foot he would kick England’s shoe. “I also wanted to ask you something.”

England’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” England’s nose wrinkled as he scowled. “Brought Matthew in here? The taxes? Tried to show you that you were wrong?” Gloved hands fisted in the the folds of his arms. “Specifics would be nice Al-America.”

America watched him, seeing the lines in his body tense. America rubbed his hands along his thighs, rubbing at the fabric for a moment. He should put it delicately, but hadn’t he already tried? “Why’d you try to end your existence?” 

“Excuse me!?” England stared at the boy, eyes widening in horror. “How the hell did you find out about that!?” He leaned forward quickly, fingers curling around the edges of the chair’s arms. “That's none of your business!” his expression hardened. “It’s personal. Only close relations are aware of the situation.” 

“Well, I guess that makes me a close relation.” America replied. He crossed his arms himself, shifting in his chair. He could see the sweat glisten on England’s skin. “I guess... if you don’t want to tell me, that’s... fine. I just... I don’t want to exist in a world without you. I...” Love you. Hate you. Want you. Need you. He bit his lip. The idea of it hit him then, if England had managed to disappear, if he’d been replaced with someone else. It was impossible, but he’d tried anyway. What would he be without him? No future he’d envisioned for his independence had not had England in it. I want you to see me England. We are equals now. I love you, you can be... we can be... I don’t want you to be gone. I want us to be allies. I don’t want you to be so unhappy. Can’t you see how great this is? We’re equals and you tried to end everything. Why? The despair at that idea choked him, crushing the words in his throat. It was too much to think about. He looked up, seeing England watching him back. I love you. See me. Want me back. I... I... I... Something, anything needed to come out of his mouth. “I... really need you to buy my goods.”

“You-” England snorted. “Close relation?” He chuckled, leaning back. “You signed that document. And if I remember correctly you said that once you signed that treaty you were a foreign relation.” he said quietly. “So no, the laudanum has nothing to do with you. Nothing. To. Do. With. You.” His upper lip curled. “And goods? As if you don’t know how to run to others. France? Prussia? Spain?” He shook his head. “If you want to talk goods then that is to be done in front of diplomats, scribes.”  England clasped his hands together, leaning into America’s space, emerald searching ocean blue. “You wanted to be a nation. One of the big boys, and you would stop at nothing else to get it. You would do anything to get your way.” He shook his head, grinning. “At least you got the ruthless part of being a nation down.” He exhaled slowly. “What more could you want?”

America didn’t believe him for a moment. What else had really changed? “You’re right, I am a nation.” He leaned closer, England wasn’t going to intimidate him. Not anymore. He could feel England’s breath on his skin. “You ask what more I could want? I have my independence now and I want everything. I’m going to stretch from sea to shining sea. I’m going to explore all of the places you never let me. I’m not done changing the world yet. I told you before, you’re not going to be able to look away from me forever. You have to be around to see it.”

“I have to?” He shook his head  “You lost the right to dictate, suggest, whatever you want to call it. You lost that right when the changeling took over the crib. What I do is none of your business, I suggest that you remember that.” The right side of his mouth raised as if he wanted to smile. “I know America…but that boy died. I don’t know who The United States of America is...and I'll decide how much I want to know.” He searched his eyes. “An gcloiseann tú mé?” Do you hear me?

Leaning forward slowly the empire paused, as if debating. Before America was aware of what the other nation was doing England had pulled away. It could mean nothing or it could mean everything. A small kiss to the corner of someone's mouth. It was like the touch of a ghost, that brief touch. America wanted to catch it, press it against his skin, but not while England was watching. I hear you. 

England got to his feet. “Well, as you said you were the one who rented this room. Since that is the case then I shall take my leave.”

He opened his mouth, but the door opened so abruptly he forgot what he was going to say. “Arthur, we should be getting back to the palace. You still have to meet with France and Spain. Their treaties are ready for you.” 

England turned, walking towards Canada. America was used to seeing his back. And one of these days he was certain he was going to make England turn around. Face him. Look into his eyes and understand. “England, you should keep watch.” he said, turning away, picking up the treaty carefully on the table. He ran his fingers over the page, this was just the beginning. He turned around, just as the door was closing behind the others. “You’ll see.” 

***

“I hope whoever refuses to cease with that incessant knocking realizes that we are in France and that they utilize the guillotine here.” England sighed, his forehead dropping onto a golden shoulder. “And France owes me a favor or two.”

“And you wouldn’t mind calling in those favors? I’m sure there would be strings attached.” A warm accent that always reminded England of sunshine responded, laughing. “I shall answer it then, leaving blood on the carpet would display terrible manners.” Rolling out of the bed Portugal shrugged into his trousers, buttoning and lacing them up with expertise. 

Pulling at the blankets that had slid to the floor England flopped back into the pillows with a shrug, grabbing the scotch on the bedside table. Holding up the small glass Arthur watched the flames from the candle on the nightstand flicker oddly in the amber liquid. What he really wanted was a moment alone, though he knew that was happening no time soon. Not since the laundanam incident. He wasn’t supposed to have woken up, he was supposed to have passed the torch to a new personified nation. Instead he had woken up to shouting doctors, nurses and spatterings of the royal family, all in a panic.

Apparently, they had tried to wake him for an hour. Catherine stood in the corner, clutching the now empty bottle to her chest as George stood beside her, hands fisted in his hair. Why had it mattered? He had failed and let a colony slip through his fingers, he had not had such a failure in as long as he could remember. Not against Roma Antiqua, Scotland, Spain, none of them. Wouldn't it be better for a nation without transgressions to take the helm? Resting his head against the headboard he exhaled slowly, controlling, before he took a drink of scotch. It was lukewarm, his nose wrinkled in distaste, he really preferred scotch iced. Eyes shifted to the Portuguese man walking across the room, pulling long brown hair back with a cord

Padding across the room, feet making no sound on the carpet, Vicente unlocked the door, languidly slumping against the door frame “Oh garoto, olha quem está aqui.” Vicente smiled at someone. Looking over his shoulder he smiled. “Arthur, you have a visitor”

“I thought I was quite clear that I would be taking no one else this evening besides you and Matthew. And no I don’t care who it is.” The Portuguese nation nodded at the curt response. 

***

“Well, you heard the captain, America.” Vicente shrugged, grinning at the younger nation on the other side of the door. “I guess you shall have to come back tomorrow. He is kinda busy.” peering down the hall and seeing no one down either side he thrust his hand forward. “Nice to finally meet you.” he said quietly. “I am Vicente, Portugal.”

America had been a little taken aback when the door opened and the person there was completely new. Not to mention in a state of undress that was unseemly. It would never have flown back home. He tried to stay focused on his face, even though he could feel his cheeks heating up with embarrassment. If anything, he’d expected Canada at the door. That the noise England had made about a meeting was just for show, or just a human. But Vicente... was Portugal. Where was that again? He tried to picture Europe in his head. Right, he was right next to Spain, they’d shared a kingdom once, right? He isn’t that far from England. The connection slipped into place. “Portugal like Port, the wine. England stopped buying French wine...” He trailed off, he needed to stay focused. “Well, I suppose it’s nice to meet you too, is England in there? I really need to talk to him.”

“No introduction?” Portugal dropped his hand with a frown. He shook his head “England is not having visitors tonight. I am pretty sure that you just heard that.” He crossed his arms with a shrug. “Captain’s orders. I can take a message but you need to come back in the morning kiddo.”

“Uh, sorry, I’ve been a little distracted.” America held out his hand and Portugal took it, albeit with a less genial look than before. “I’m America, which I guess you already knew that.” He tried to step into the room, regardless, but Portugal blocked his path.

“I’m sorry.”

“England! I need to talk to you. It’s important!” he said, raising his voice. England was in there, Portugal had glanced back into the room. He did it again now. America turned back to Portugal, looking him in the eye. “I know you don’t know me, but it’s... You control Brazil, right? I don’t know him, but I doubt you’d be happy if England was keeping him from you.”

Portugal frowned “Probably not, but like you said you don’t know him. I know England and right now he said he doesn't want to see anyone. So you will not be seeing him. If meu querido does not wish to see you then that is that.” Portugal straightened looking back into the room, long fingers gripping the door. Fluent Portuguese spat back and forth between Portugal and England. The brunette winced as there was the sound of glass shattering as it hit the wall. Portugal turned back to face America. “Like I said, come back in the morning.” Eyes narrowing slightly his expression hardened. “I really don’t need to spend anymore time out here. He is impatient.” He opened his mouth again as if to continue but stopped, the sound of footsteps on the floor. He pushed the door open with a smile. “Inglaterra.”  

“What?!” Messy haired and frowning England appeared in the doorway. Unlike his counterpart he had at least donned an unbuttoned shirt. England glared at him from just inside the doorway. America took in his appearance, shirt open at the throat. Bare shins and bare feet from the bottom of his breeches that were loosely hanging from his hips. “Vicente told you to leave, I am sure that you know what that means?”

“I...” America looked between them and it all came together, exactly what sort of activity he had interrupted. Surely you know of such fondnesses... France’s words sputtered through his head. The heat deepened in his cheeks and he tried to keep any expression off his face. He turned away, not saying anything else and took deliberate steps away. One, two, ten, slow down, eleven, twelve, turn down the next hallway. England was... was... America slipped down the hall and slammed his hand into the first breakable thing he came across. The shattered porcelain vase dripped water onto the tabletop, the flowers falling in a shatter of reds and whites. America grabbed one, a red rose, and crushed it in his fingers. 

“America...” He jumped at the voice, turning to look at Canada.

“Don’t sneak up on me.” America said, his voice muffled by how tightly he held his jaw. He shoved at the mess he’d made of the glass, rocking the wood and sending some of the shards tinkling to the floor. Canada watched him, approaching slowly.

“I didn’t. I was coming down the hallway when you nearly ran me over.”

“I didn’t see you.” 

Canada sighed. He reached out slowly, taking America’s hand. “You cut yourself. Come on, I’ll get you a bandage.”

America took two steps to follow him. “Wait, are you allowed to go places with me anymore?”

“England did not explicitly say I couldn’t. Therefore, I can act with a certain degree of flexibility.”

“You’re just not going to tell him.”

“I’m just not going to tell him.” Canada replied, matching America’s smile with a small one of his own. America followed him to his rooms, they weren’t far away. They went inside and Canada called for some clean linen. He got America to sit by the fire while he fetched the wash basin. America held it in his lap while Canada washed the small, neat cuts all over his palm. He winced as Canada plucked out a piece of glass.

“Did you know?” Canada looked up at him, a question in his gaze. “That he was sleeping with Portugal?”

“It’s not exactly something anyone goes about announcing... I gather that he’s been close with Portugal for a long time. America... he’s...”

“What? Not the only one? I mean, we both know about him and France, but that was a long time ago.” Canada didn’t say anything. “Right?”

“He... came into my rooms last night... well, from France’s.”

“What was he doing in your room?” 

“Passing out drunk if you must know.” America didn’t want to believe any of it. England had tried to end his existence and now he was burning through lovers, past and present. Hanover... that was another one, Prussia’s brother. The lands England’s recent kings had come from. How many others were there? Canada came back, taking America’s hand out of the water and wiping it dry. “France was right...”

“France needs to stop talking about me, some ally he is...”

“You’re still in love with England?”

“I never said that I loved him.” Aloud anyway... “How can I love a guy like that? He shows up to a treaty signing drunk after having sex all night only to do it again with someone else? Who does he think he is?” The words came pouring out. It was easier to be angry at him. 

Canada wrapped his hand in silence, not saying a word. They sat in silence, Canada brooding, America could feel it. He shifted, moving the pink-stained water to the floor so that he could pull Canada closer. He hesitated, but then he came. There wasn’t a lot of room, but they managed to lean together on the couch, Canada laying his arm over America’s shoulders so he could lean over. Canada rested his chin on the top of America’s head.

“I have to ask you something.” Canada said.

“I can’t promise I’ll answer.”

“Did you sleep with France?” America was quiet. “I was really angry at first, but the more I thought about it...”

“I didn’t. I mean, he kissed me... but no, I don’t love him.” His ear pressed against Canada’s chest he heard the release of breath like a roar. “Does England think that?”

“Everyone thinks that.”

“Don’t tell them otherwise. It’s just between us.” 

Canada was quiet for a moment, his arm tightening around America’s shoulder. “Okay.” he said. 

America shifted, this wasn’t as comfortable as it used to be. He leaned up, pulling away. Getting to his feet. It wasn’t the same. Nothing was. “I’m going home.”

***

“That was a little harsh don't you think, Inglaterra?” Vicente closed the door after watching as the American walked stiffly down the hall and around the corner. 

“No, not at all.” England shrugged out of the shirt, draping it over the foot of the bed. “You told the boy that I was not taking visitors, you told him more than once that, and yet he still pushed. Persistence does not always pay off.” Pale, nimble fingers undid the buttons of his trousers. 

“But still-”

“Vicente!” England glared at the nation. “I want as little to do with the brat. Did you want to be friendly, cordial with Antonio when you separated?” 

“Well, no-”

“And did Spain wish to talk to you? Does he still want to talk to you?”

“Well, no-” 

“Then why the hell would I want to talk to America? Have I not been civil enough by holding my tongue and not screaming at the boy? By minding my own business and keeping my distance so as not to say something with the influence of spirits or my injured temper? What more could America want? Forgiveness? For me to cook him supper and take him to the fairy rings? He was the one who severed our ties once he decided to rebel.” He dropped his trousers to the floor and scooted into the bed. Pulling the blankets up beneath his arms he flopped back into the bed with a sigh. 

“You could give him a chance?” Portugal perched on the edge of the bed. “What happened between the two of you, it’s not the same as what has happened to us with unions before.”

“I talked with him.” England muttered, rolling over, turning his back to the other man. “I spoke with him at the meeting, after the meeting. He did not say anything, except for the fact that he wants to rule the world. And that was that. He told me that because he needed me for trade... that I was more useful to him alive than dead.” England leered at the heavy curtains covering the windows as he was met with silence. “Exactly, so why should I bother speaking with him, huh? Trade negotiations are to be done in official meetings so since me being alive is only good for trade then speaking with one another in my private quarters is out of the question. And it wasn’t a union.”

“Arthur…”

“I don’t wish to speak of this anymore.” England refused to look away from the wall. Tense silence filled the room, followed by darkness as the candles were capped. The other side of the bed sank, Vicente crawling into the bed beside him. No more words filled the room, and England gave silent thanks as the other nation kept his distance. Curling in on himself England counted his breaths.  Everything had changed, nothing was the same. Swallowing, the empire prayed for sleep, it was all so confusing, it hurt. What was there left to do? What could he do? Those were questions for the sunlight. 

***

The room where they’d signed the treaty felt changed. The rooms were darkened, returning so late in the evening. Only the light from the flickering candle in his hand threw light on the table where the paper had lain, the chair where England had sat. A bit of wax was stuck to the polished surface. America scraped at it with his fingernail. Sitting the candle down, he pulled out a chair and sat, watching the flickering of the light on the walls of the room. Each little bit of polished wood, paint, wallpaper, brass furnishing, every little bit of it said he wasn’t home. 

The way they all looked at him was so very different now.

He’d seen it in Spain’s eyes when he’d seen him just a few days before, and France’s too. Some nations that he’d noticed, but didn’t get their names. Sizing him up. No doubt wondering what they could get. Was it all like that? Just a long line of people wondering if he would fail? He felt the table dig into his elbows as he lay his chin on his hands. 

Free and Independent States. 

There was nothing he couldn’t do now. No one could tell him otherwise. That thought made him smile. He could have an actual navy. He could print his own money. Take out credit. Trade with whatever interesting countries he came across. Explore. America thought about the mountains, the Ohio River Valley, the Mississippi, further west. That was where the future lay, in those vast forests and unexplored rivers. He would find the headwaters, know the nooks and vales that lay beyond. Now he could meet the nations to the west. There were others he could talk to, without England interfering. 

He lay his head down on the table, watching the candle wax drip and pool. The world could change, be melted down and reformed like wax. He reached forward, touching the soft shape, it was hot, burning his fingertip, but the print was made. He’d made a mark. 

“No one is ever going to be able to forget me.”

The next morning he made his way to the docks, grateful that there was a merchant ship already scheduled to depart. He couldn’t wait to be home, get out of France and get to work in his own home.

“You are leaving so soon, mon lapin, I thought you would be more interested in celebrating.” France said, leaning idly by the dockside. He’d come to bid America farewell, after the hastily scrawled note he’d sent off that morning. America stood with his hands in his pockets, warming his hands against the crisp air coming off the sea.

“I have things to do.”

“You have nations to avoid.” said France, shrugging his shoulders. “Considering how many contracts your people are leaving here with in regards to a certain island, I find your plan highly suspect.”

“Well, I need money. And I have lots of ideas of what to do with it.” France chuckled. “What?” America asked, tilting his head in question. 

“Your dreams are still so lofty! It seems even your own sovereignty cannot temper them.” France stepped forward and put his hands on America’s shoulders, planting a kiss on each cheek before the younger nation could protest. “I suppose I should bid you farewell, you leave me here with so much gloom!”

“I’m sure you’ll find ways to be entertained. You’ll have to let me know about how that hot air balloon that can carry people works out. Wouldn’t it be so amazing to be able to fly?” America said. 

“I think soaring like the birds might take a few more centuries, yet, if it is even possible.”

“Don’t be mad when I figure it out before you.” France rolled his eyes and waved him off. America grinned and walked up the gangplank and onto the ship. He felt better already. 

The ship was doing its final preparations to cast off when he saw him. France’s back was easy enough to spot, he was easily the most colorful person on the docks that early in the morning. He’d paused, talking to two people. America recognized England immediately, his eyebrows raised at whatever France was saying, Portugal standing by his side, laughing at something with France. 

As the ship began to push off, America saw England turn, look towards him. For a brief moment, he nodded.

America watched until he couldn’t see him at all anymore.

England wasn’t looking away after all.