Work Text:
December 16th, 1773
.
The waves rock against the harbour, repeatedly bearing down on it.
The day is silent, no other people in sight.
Except for the rebels, of course.
America braces his hands against the railing that just almost tips out over the harbour, sea breeze sweeping through the docks. It’d almost be peaceful, it you closed your eyes and ignored the waves and the rebels and the unrest.
But the day isn’t peaceful , and it doesn’t deserve to be.
His knuckles are white against the railing, hand on the rail cramped from gripping it too hard. The hand that’s not on the rail reaches for his gun, clenching the short pistol for all it’s worth.
The men board the Dartmouth, dressed as savages, hiding who they are for fear of being prosecuted.
He pulls his gun of his holster. Looks at it. Doesn’t shoot. Doesn’t move.
His hand wanders at the rail, brushing over the unpolished wood, rotted by the sea below it. It might break if he keeps gripping it this hard, but America doesn’t let go.
He stares out at the sea, at the ships, at the men on them, his men, his people.
They had invited him to come with them, to rid themselves of the tyranny that came with England, with his supplies and his rules and- and stuff. But America hadn’t come to help them. He’d only come to watch. They’d invited him to join them, but he’d refused, for reasons he himself barely had a grasp on.
But he didn’t do anything, just stared out, wide eyed as salt water sprayed over his red coat and wincing as a bit of it got into his eyes, but he didn’t stop staring, didn’t stop looking because this is what they’d been telling him all along, what Adams and Hancock had been telling him the people wanted and-
He’d wanted to help, but he couldn’t. England would kill him- maybe literally. Tax him more, make him regret this. As if that would make him loyal.
America scoffed at the thought, at England and his stupid rules, at his righteousness, at what would undoubtedly occur after this, the consequences he would face. The consequences England would make him face.
He forces himself to stop biting his lip, straightening out his expression without remorse, ignoring the way his heart clenches at the thought of England right now.
It’s not fear, he tells himself. It’s not confusion. It’s not lo-
The first barrel of tea hits the water, and America reels, blinking and letting go of the rail.
Was this really what his people wanted? He’d believed the Sons of Liberty when they’d told him that, because well, how could he not? England had been putting more and more restrictions on him for the past decade just to cover his ass with all his debt, it wouldn’t really require a stretch of reality to believe his people would be frustrated with that.
It wouldn’t require a stretch of reality to imagine America was frustrated with that.
He leans his pistol on the railing, so the barrel faces the sea.
A sort of shiver runs down his back at the thought of how angry England would be at him for this. He pictures him, all furious green eyes and flushed red cheeks and words that would hurt, he knew. Fingers clenched on the railing again at the thought (because he knew England would be angrier, angrier than before, even angrier than in 1765). What would he do? What would he say? Maybe America shouldn’t have-
But then he remembered what they’d told him at a meeting when he’d voiced his doubts, how Adams had grabbed his shoulder and said that this was his country now, that they were his people, that if he kept letting England walk over him like this he’d be tramped into the ground and never get up.
And he was right, he thought with a swallow. England- England kept treating him like a child, like he was still just a kid. Like he had some sort of authority of him even though he was never fucking here. Like he could just go ‘Oh jolly well America, I’ll just put some good taxes on all your vital products and not even bother to ask what you think of it, because your just some idiotic colonial who can’t even manage him own relations, never mind that I’ve been fighting three fucking wars and barely managing to get out of it with a cent to my name and you’ve been doing just fine now’ and get away with it, like America was such an idiot he never understood what the world was and how it worked and-
His knuckles were white now, and he blinked before staring up again at the tea crates falling into the sea harbour. The water rippled around them as they hit the sea, damaged goods.
He wondered how much would this cost England, a sort of smile twisting onto his face with the thought of how worried he’d be.
He’d probably lose his mind, and for the first time the thought made America almost determined, finger resting lightly on the trigger of his gun.
He wanted to see the looks on England’s face when he realized he couldn’t boss America around anymore, that he wasn’t just a little colony he could use for cotton and sugar and then just ignore. He’d show him, show him exactly what he was capable of, of exactly how much America needed him, of exactly where he could go shove that fucking tea-
The sky looked almost peaceful, when you ignored the protests. He smiled up at it, remembered how he’d always told England that one day he’d be going there, that one day he’d find a way so that England could come see him more often, so that he didn’t have to spend so many nights staring out the window and wishing the England was there. And England had always laughed along, a ‘oh look silly America and his foolish dreams’ but that wasn’t true anymore, right? If he could fight England, then surely he could reach the sky one day. It wasn’t like he’d have a lack of time or something.
He leaned forwards, smiling a bit at the sea breeze that whipped in his face.
The sun hung lower in the sky now, dark blue night coming onto the harbour as the men finished dumping the last of the tea, running off the boat in quick silence. He said a silent prayer in the hopes that they wouldn’t get caught by the British.
He was just about to take off when someone slammed hard into his back, shoving him forwards against the rail. In his shock, his gun slipped from his hand, and fells into the rough waves of the harbour.
He stared after it, frowning, eyebrows drawn together. He’d really liked that gun. It’d been his first gun. The gun he’d learned to shoot with, the one he’d used for hunting, one of the first thing he’d gotten himself by hard work and not England’s favour-
He gritted his teeth, bit his lip.
He watched the sea swallow up the last metallic glint of his gun, telling himself he’d get a new one, a better one.
And it was then, shoulders clenched and armless, that he made his decision, one he hoped- knew was right, one that he hoped would make his people proud.
He’d fight England, and he’d win.
.
January 16th, 1774
.
The world is spinning a bit, America thinks when England step through the threshold of his house (England owns it, but America lives in it and England never visits, so America likes to think it’s his).
Calmly, with all the vigor of someone disciplining a child, he sets his pistol on the table at his side, metal clanking against the hard wood.
“America.” He is saying, lips flattened into a tight line, expression maimed with disgust and disdain. America resists the urge to cringe under the weight of his glare, cold and distant.
“Would you care to explain yourself?” Oh, so now is when he asks, when he finally comes to talk to America. Only after America kicks up his feet and refuses to comply to England’s every word does he actually bother to give a shit about him, only when America tells him he can’t control everything America does and give him no representation in government, only then does he show up.
And even still, he’s late.
“What do I need to explain?” America asks, attempting to mirror England’s expression and failing, likely because he doesn’t have a stick up his ass.
England steps forwards, not bothering to take off his boots, hard footsteps echoing on the floor.
“I would think you’d know that, America.” He says, eyes steely, unrelenting. “This childish rebellion of yours has to en-”
America’s fingers twitch. “It’s not-“
“Silence.” England commands, bringing a hand to America’s shoulder, gripping the fabric of America’s coat until it hurts. America doesn’t wince. “Let me speak.”
“You-” England’s voice catches for a second, and America searches his eyes for regret, doubt, that something he’d see when he caught America talking about freedom and the importance of liberty and-
“-You are acting like a child. I give you my protection-“
“Your dictatorial ideological enforcement, you mean-“
“-Did you not hear what I said?” England demands, digging his fingers into America shoulder until America has to suppress a shudder.
“Listen. To. Me. And then I will let you speak.” England says, voice almost breaking into breathlessness at the last syllable of speak, and America can see him clenching his teeth, see the twitch of the muscle near his jaw.
Good. Let him be afraid of me. America thinks, and the thought is almost gleeful until England interrupts him.
“I give you my protection, and in turn I expect payment. An empire cannot run on a deficit, especially if the colony it protects is nothing but a constant thorn in my side, rebelling and insisting on consistently more favourable terms for itself despite the fact that yo-“
“You don’t let me be useful! You treat me like I’m completely useless and incompetent, like I don’t deserve fair representation, like I-” Like I mean nothing to you.
America clamps his jaw shut before he can say more.
England, thankfully, does not notice, too caught up America’s disobedience of his orders not to speak.
America tenses his muscles, expecting a slap or a punch or fingernails digging into his shoulder until he sees bright white spots in the periphery of his vision, but nothing comes.
Instead, England pulls his hand away sharply, wiping it on his coat as if he had just touched an especially disgusting type of vermin. For a half second, he breaks his gaze with America.
And America simply stares at him, having lost his train of thought in his near slip up and England’s glare, the way England’s hand jerks back as if to reach for his pistol, still set on the table.
But England doesn’t reach for his pistol, although his fingers twitch in a way that suggests it’s taking a good amount of restraint not to do so.
Instead, he clears his throat and continues his speech, as if America had said nothing at all.
America’s hands clench into fists, and he stares hard at his boots, trying to work up to courage to stare England in the eyes again.
“You-“ England starts, grabbing his chin and jerking America’s head to meet his gaze. “Have been nothing but trouble of the late. Disloyal, disobedient, useless-” He hisses the last one, low and through gritted teeth, and America supresses a flinch, the urge to pull back, counter it with rage, with that boiling of his blood, with the urge to fight-
England shakes his head.
“-But you can be redeemed. You can be fixed.” He says, and America can’t help it, he’s blazing with fury, England could meet his gaze but he wouldn’t want to, America will show him-
“Kneel.” England says, voice as quick and sharp as a whip.
America doesn’t.
Instead, he grabs England’s hand from his chin, wrenching it to the side.
“You-”England’s words are cut off by a short gasp of pain as he turns to the side to avoid overt pain. His hair is in the way of his eyes, but America knows if he could see them they’d be furious.
“I. Do. Not. Kneel. To tyrants.” America spits out and maybe there’s some part of him that only half believes it, but it doesn’t matter because England twists his arm out of America’s grasp, pulling away as if he’d touched a hot iron, before in turn grabbing America’s wrist and turning it over.
America grits his teeth. He should not, cannot, will not, let England see his pain. Unlike England, he stays upright, feels his arm twist until there’s painful sparks behind his eyes and his shoulder feels like it’s been pulled out and-
He grits his teeth, but he fucks up. His mouth was open, and he bit down on his lip. Hard. Hard enough that he feels blood trickling down his chin, red warmth cutting into the white of his shirt.
“Ah-” He almost mumbles, and squeezes his eyes shut in shame. He can’t do it, can’t avoid pain, can’t ignore it, he’s-
The pressure stops.
He feels something warm on his chin, something that’s not blood. No, it’s-
He opens his eyes.
England.
He wipes a thumb across America’s chin, brushing aside the blood and gazing at him, head tilted, lips downturned and parted. And there’s something in his eyes, almost half closed and soft with some sort of emotion America can’t pin down, and how he’s doing it as if he’s done it a thousand times before, almost on autopilot, but there’s still something to him, something to how he’s gazing at America, like-
England blinks, clearly not noticing America is watching him.
“America-” He near breathes out, eyes drifting up to meet America’s and-
He freezes.
America freezes.
And then suddenly it’s there again, that white hot rage of holy fuck and how could he and I hate him, building up in his chest, tension curling, stringing, coiling until he has to, has to touc- hurt England.
“You fucking-” America says with tinged, cut off bitterness. And then he punches him, straight in the jaw, or at least tries to. He doesn’t expect it to do much, England’s always been stronger than him, but still, he has to try, otherwise there’s no point, no point to all this-
“I cannot believe-” He grasps at straws for words. I can’t believe you think of me like that. Like- like it’s your fucking job anymore. I can’t believe you think I can’t be free.
I can’t believe you think I’d ever care about you.
Surprisingly, the blow hits. America’s eyes widen, and he feels it. Knuckles cracking against bone. Strength. Power. He almost could’ve beat England-
England staggers back, shoulders bracing against the wall, booted heel knocking to the place where the wall meets the floor. He’s staring at him now, wide eyed and with flushed cheeks, hands loosely at his sides, not even curled into fists.
He looks more shocked than angry. At America or himself, America isn’t sure.
And for a second he’s just there, shoulders shaking, taking in shuddering breathes and refusing to drop his gaze.
And then his hands come up to his collar, straighten and tighten it in a fashion that America guesses will leave him short of breath. He steadies himself with a hand against the wall, straightening his knees and wiping his teeth with the back of his hand, leaving his lips and gritted teeth stained in his own blood.
It’s a good look on him. The only look America would like to see England sporting.
Imploring him, pleading with him, begging America for mercy-
England leans off the wall, takes a deep breath.
“You will pay dearly for you actions, America.” He says, although it’s really more that he spits the words out.
“You will not get away with this.” And just for a brief second, his gaze leaves America’s, glances to the table.
And then he spins on his heel and leaves, walks out the door without a glance back. Just like America wants him to.
As he watches England fade off into the distance, steps trembling with rage or something else America doesn’t want to place, he notices.
England left his gun on the table.
.
April 16th, 1775
.
The town is in chaos.
America clutches the strap of leather that holds his gun close, staring out at the field with steely determination.
He watches the redcoats descend upon his men, demand resignation of them from the field, demand they give up their arms. He watches and stares from up above on the hill, almost shaking in his boots. With anger, of course.
Men open fire. He isn’t sure whose starts it, but he thinks it’s his side. He doesn’t blame them, though.
For a second, he stands on the periphery, the edge of the battle. Thinks, for just a split of a moment.
And then he’s off, boots splattering in the mud as he descends from the hill, wind whipping in his hair.
He stops abruptly on his heel, kicking mud up around the wet grass before landing steadily on two feet, not even panting from the run. He’s getting stronger, he can feel it.
Maybe strong enough that he can face England and win.
He turns sharply to glance over his shoulder, not bothering to attempt to clean his jacket from dirt and grime. The battle rages on, shots firing into the air. A man falls, and now America is close enough to see it’s one of England’s men, bullet steeping into his chest and blood making his jacket even redder.
He hesitates for only a half second before running closer, straight into the battlefield to reach the side where his men are. They’re too distracted by bullets from the other side to notice him coming up from behind them, and he thanks God for that. Last thing he needs is to get shot by one of his own men.
Gaze whipping to face the spray of bullets, he pulls out his gun.
Well, not his gun, per say.
He swallows a bit. He wonders if England is across the field, but he can’t tell. The soldiers all blur into one big red mass of firing bullets.
For some reason he forever fails to explain, he finds himself shoving through the throngs of his men to the front. His men are disorganized and without proper formation as it stands, so no one questions him as he pushed and sneaks up.
From here, he can see the soldiers’ faces.
He loads the hand gun, gunpowder that he doesn’t have the time to blow away catching in the air around him, steadying himself and his nerves.
It’s just a bullet. You can do it. You’ve fired guns plenty before, hunted plenty of animals. This shouldn’t be too hard, right?
His fingers hoover over the trigger. He’s never used this gun before.
He wonders when England used the gun. If it was during one of his battles with France or Spain, if it was hung up on the wall after a victory or tossed on the floor after a defeat, if England cares that he lost the gun, if he’s without one right now, if he used the gun during the massacre at Boston-
A gunshot rings in his ears, and he stares down to realize he just pulled the trigger.
He gulps, looking up to see if he hit anyone, and realizes he can’t tell. The bullet fired too fast. Lightning quick.
Striding as close forwards as he can, he surveys, eyes glancing over similarly looking Brits in identical coats.
“Fuck!” He hears someone nearby yell, and whips his head around to see if any of his men were hurt. But it wasn’t them, he doesn’t know these men but he knows that voice, that accent that’s only slightly different from his but means the worl-
He turns to find England staring straight ahead, eyes set straight forwards, shoulders squared, ignoring the wound in his shoulder, not a hint of previous weakness. Blood stains his cheek, dirt his lips.
He must hate that, America thinks distractedly, remembering how much England would fuss over stains, how he would spend hours trying to wash out unnoticeable bits of dirt from his clothes, America tugging at his coattails, asking England to come play with him. England would always ignore him.
Good fucking riddance, America thinks as he fires another time, stopping to reload his gun. He briefly wonders if they have backups, if the British have backups, but the thought gets pushed out of his mind in favour of the battle in front of him, the smell of gunpowder, the spray of dirt in his face, a bullet whizzing past him.
Wait.
He looks up and sees him.
England sees him now, eyes wide, a hand fixing to the hip of his belt, tapping his pistol holster. He finds it empty, and lowers his gaze to America’s gun. Swallows, drifts his gaze up to meet America’s.
Whips out his musket, loads it.
America stands, stares, stupefied, as England’s hands open the cartridge of bullets and load it, lithe and steady, so unlike America’s when he loaded his (England’s) gun, shaking with nerves and uncertainty.
He tries to swallow that nervousness as he raises the pistol with one hand, clutching the masked silver with an overhand swoop of his arm, flicking the barrel so it aims directly at England’s heart.
Meets England’s eyes.
Doesn’t hesitate.
Hesitates.
And for a second he just looks at England, his un kept hair clouding America’s view of his crystalline green eyes, how his coat is completely neat except for the blood on it, how he’s looking at America, like, like-
Like he’s about to shoot him.
And England raises his musket, pulls the trigger so smoothly and quickly that America almost misses it, forgets to pull the trigger on his (Is it his?- He’s fired it, right?) gun, almost drops it in shock. He didn’t think England would ever-
“You will pay for dearly for your actions.” He says, voice steely as he turns to leave.
“You will not get away with this”
-Of course he would.
And it’s there, in that split second, that America realizes he hates England.
It’s so simple, so easy, he thinks as he braces himself for impact, how did he never think of it before? England wouldn’t hesitate to hurt him, wouldn’t feel any regret if he shot America, God, he wouldn’t give a shit if he killed America, so long as he still had the resources of his land and an obedient populace that never questioned him, never thought him wrong, would never stand up to him-
He’s a tyrant. It’s so easy to see. He closes his eyes, just pictures it for a second, England smiling at him, head tilted with that concern in his eyes that he so well hides behind a steel trap-
America can’t-
He swallows, stops. Makes himself stop. Stares up, meets England’s gaze, readies himself for pain-
England is not there.
There is no one where his (former) guardian once stood, simply an abundance of empty space which another one of his soldiers soon moves in to fill, but his eyes are not green, they are blue, and his hair is blond but it is all wrong. And he has normal eyebrows.
A hand immediately reaches to his shoulder, he shuts his eyes, readying for the pain-
Nothing comes.
England missed.
England has fought in hundreds of wars, shot thousands of people. England doesn’t miss-
England missed, and America should be grateful.
But still, America can’t help but trace the space behind the soldier to peer, to see where England went, where he is, what happened.
Maybe someone hit him and knocked the gun out of his hand or something, he thinks, and decides resolutely that that is the case.
But England doesn’t miss-
He drops the matter, and picks up the gun which fell to the floor.
It’s his now, he decides with a grimly set expression, turning back to the battle without a second thought.
It doesn’t matter if he loses the battle, he’ll win the war, and he’ll keep the gun as his prize.
He doesn’t let himself think of it in any other way.
.
July 4th, 1776
.
We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal…
…Among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness…
America’s eyes drift over the paper with reverence, grazing over the side of his chair as the newly inked paper stares up at him, just drying from its writing earlier today.
It’s late, he thinks as he looks blearily out the window, leaning his forehead to rest against the open windowsill. The candle flickers in the bright moon’s light.
He puts the declaration to the side, swallowing as his fingers pass over the ink, not wanting to blur it.
It’s my country now. He thinks, smile coming up to his face as he rolls his shoulders and raises his head to stare down at the words, something in his chest swelling with pride as he looks out over the- his- city at night.
My constitution, my people, my lead. My rights.
He doesn’t close his eyes, because if he does that he’ll mar the smile, think about-
England just touches his lips, soft and gentle and-
He does anyways, and America hurts. He doesn’t know why thinking about England makes him want to grip the edge of the windowsill for support, why his heart seems to simultaneously clench and reach into his throat. But he doesn’t want to think about it, not really.
He stares out the window.
The stars are bright tonight, and for a second he closes his eyes, just imagines.
Wind whipping in his hair, the feel of that free sky breeze, the knowledge that there’s nothing, absolutely nothing that he can’t do.
That feeling of freedom, that unraveling hope in his chest,-
A person taking his hand.
He blinks his eyes open, yawning.
The candle’s gotten low, he thinks through a haze of sleepiness. And it’s been a very long, very eventful day (He can still picture some of the Sons of Liberty arguing about what to put in his Constitution “Damned God, Jefferson, ‘self-evident’ has a hyphen! And capitalise the T in Truths for all that is, we can’t have these bleeding Brits thinking we don’t know grammar!”)
He sighs, laying down into bed and staring up at the ceiling. He loved his people, his leaders, but they could be a handful sometimes. He hoped it was just the stress of having to deal with fighting off England and all, and that they’d feel better once they won the war. (Once, not if)
He rolled over on his bed, angling his head on the pillow so if he opened his eyes wide enough, he could just see the sky.
One day, he’ll go there, he thinks as he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.
He dreams.
His knees compress against some sort of- it is a table? Doesn’t matter, it’s in front of him, and it’s cool, he thinks as he stares out of curved windowpanes, the hum of scratching metal near him similar but not the same as some sort of crazy fast horse run carriage.
He rolls his shoulders, leaning his head back to find some sort of- metal ceiling?- Whatever, it isn’t important right now, because just then he looks out, and he can feel his lips spread into a wide grin.
Below him lies his country. He doesn’t know how he knows it, but it is. It’s rolling fields and passing farms and towers in the distance that scrape the ceiling of the blue, blue sky.
It’s a hand laying on his, warm and soft and solid and a weigh leaning on his shoulder.
He’s flying, the feeling soaring in his chest, and he looks over to his left-
England. America bits back a frown, pictures how England will yell at him-
But England doesn’t yell at him, doesn’t scream, doesn’t frown, doesn’t even flinch. In fact, he leans closer into America’s touch, just a hint of a smile on his face as he unclasps their hands to brush his fingers against America’s face.
He smiles now, for real, so real it touches his eyes and America can feel himself smiling back, feel that weigh in his chest lighten and expand, his heart’s pounding-
“You alright, lad?” England says, and America can’t help it- his smile gets wider, he leans closer, he-
He kisses him, right then and there, in the plane (he thinks that’s what it’s called, the word comes to him without warning), hand still on the smooth curved surface in front of him. Feels that soft heat under his lips, his collar, how one of England’s arms comes to brace around his back and hold him, close but not possessive, just there, just smiling against his lips, just happy.
Happy.
He kisses England, and he’s happy.
He kisses England, and he’s flying.
-He dreams, and he wakes up, chest heaving, sweating.
His arms hurts, his back is sore. He stretches, cracks his knuckles with wide eyes and stares, breathless, out the window, stifling summer air in his lungs as he thinks about what just happened. About what he just imagined. About what he just did.
He heart pounds in his chest, and he blinks, eyes immediately going to the paper on his desk, hand snapping out to assure himself it’s still there, that he hasn’t lost it to the wind.
He exhales out with relief, though only slightly, the pounding in his chest not calming.
It’s there. It’s fine. America is fine. It was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream-
And for a second he can feel England’s lips just touching his, warm breath grazing over his lips, that slightly tilted smile he gaze for just a half second that made America’s heart just-
He pinches himself, hard enough that sparks of pain shoot through his veins and nearly succeeds in calming down his racing heartbeat.
His hand goes to the belt that he’d left on before falling asleep, tips of his fingers grazing over his hips-
And maybe England would-
No.
Absolutely not.
He flicks out the gun from its holster, stares at it for one brief, everlasting second. Takes in the harsh glint of the metal, sharp and ruthless just like England himself. Bites his lips, tastes blood. Expels the last of that insane, crazy, stupid, dream from his mind.
He stands up. Walks over to the window without an inch of hesitation. He’s hesitated too much, showed too much weakness earlier, and that’s what this is. That’s all this is.
He doesn’t- tries with all his might not to- pause as he holds the gun out over into the choking heat. It’s still night out, and for one second he can’t help, he closes his eyes and breathes in the hot air.
And the he drops the gun.
He stays just long enough to hear the metallic clatter against the sidewalk before he spins on his heel and walks resolutely back to his bed, resolving to sleep again, and hopes that he won’t dream.
As for the gun, it doesn’t matter. He’ll get his own tomorrow.