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(1776)
He grips his musket like a prayer, holds it to his chest and aims steadily. His hands aren't shaking.
One knee on the ground, firing like a sniper.
One shot. Two. Three.
America has shot before, but this is the first time he's killed.
He tells himself it's for a good cause, that if he shoots enough redcoats he can use their blood to paint the flag of his new nation.
.
(1864)
“That.” His eyes are wide, jaw gaping, shaking with fury and disgust.
“That was my brother.”
He points to the corpse on the floor, nothing more than a child- twelve, maybe thirteen at most.
He's been dead a few minutes now. His blood is already starting to dry on the grass.
America thinks the white on his flag might've stood for innocence, even if the projection was false.
He closes his eyes and tell his men to give a proper burial. Cheaply, of course.
.
(1867)
Russia's a good enough friend that America doesn't mind the drinking.
He's knocking back shot after shot of vodka, and America's matching him to boot, getting five times as drunk, so the world goes starry and Russia's eyes look silver instead of purple.
“So, England just breaks down, and starts crying, in the middle of the field, just 'cause I didn't want to be his anymore, can you believe him, he's such a little bitch. Fuck do I hate him. You know he was going to support the Confederacy in the war? You know that right? Absolute fucker.”
Russia waits until America finishes, downs another shot with an everlastingly false smile on his face.
“You have not been through a whole lot, have you? You would appreciate England more, if you had seen earlier times.”
America laughs, grinning over his shot and tipping his glass for another clear burn in the back of his throat.
“Yeah, you guys are fucked up. 'Specially you. What happened, anyways. What made you all like-” he draws circles in the air near his temple. “Y'know.” Crazy.
Russia does not answer, though his smile falls, just slightly.
“Drink less. You should be more scared of where your words will get you.”
Why should I, though? I'm America.
I don't know fear.
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(1917)
He stares at England. He can't stop.
His former guardian casts him an annoyed glance.
“Stop looking at me like that.” He snaps, shoves past America with a hand pressed flat against his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his newly minted uniform.
The rapidity of his movement almost hides his limp.
England keeps looking at him like he's turned senile, grimacing.
“America, what in the bloody fuck are you doing?” England looks well ready to punch whoever looks him the wrong way into the next week- not that he's in any particular condition to do so, but whatever.
America thinks he should be smiling. Here's England, suffering like he always wanted him to.
.
(1928)
“You're insatiable, you know.”
Clever wine drunk eyes meet his own. France is holding that wine glass like it's the sole thing keeping him alive. Maybe it is.
“And you're a pervert.” which perhaps isn't the wittiest comeback, but he's drunk, give him a break.
France laughs at his words, but doesn't seem to hear the insult in them. “Yes, I believe I destroyed the world once.”
He pats America on the back, kicks up his legs and gazes over the sprawling fields painted out roughly in front of them- France says Monet.
“Don't worry. You'll have your chance, too. We'll see to that.”
And then he laughs, crumples the glass in his hand.
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(1939)
“You won't help me, will you.”
America shakes his head.
“No.”
England says something he can't hear- all America can think is that in that moment, he sounds suspiciously like France.
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(1945)
“Thanks.” Is all he gets for everything he did in the war. With England's clipped tone and narrowed eyes, he's pretty sure even that’s not sincere.
And then England kisses him. On the lips. Quick, pulls away so fast America's pretty sure it's an illusion.
But he goes out anyways, onto the street with England's people and not his own, dances with girls and pulls them just a little closer than he should.
He likes to pretend that the whole thing's real. That he saved the world and got the girl (which one, doesn't matter).
He cuts his eyes to England, nothing more than a quick glance, his heart thrumming.
Save the world. Get the girl. Live happily ever after.
That's the dream, after all.
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(1954)
“I feel like you're going to kill us all.”
He should have never gotten Canada drunk.
His brother is muttering and slurring his words, crushing the pillow under his hands like it's alive.
“I love you, but I think you're going to kill us all. You, or Russia, but I'm pretty sure it's you. You're- you're more reckless. It’s why people like you. Appealing.”
America furrows his brother, stares at him like he's turned Soviet.
“What do you mean?” The words taste bitter in his mouth.
Canada slurs off, not really paying attention anymore.
“I mean that you forget your flag has red in it for a reason.”
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(1975)
“I won't forgive you.” England says, breath drawing out with exasperation. “The world won't forgive you either, and they won't want to forget either.”
“This entire war's been a disaster, America.” He says, voice steady and calm as always. That used to be because he had enough power to dominate others. Now though, it's because he has the right people on his side.
America shakes his head, forgetting everything. The bombs, the tortured children, all that passed before- everything.
“You're wrong, England.” He says, because he's changed, because it's only him that lets England have that sort of audacious confidence.
“They won't want to forgive me, or forget.”
He holds England's gaze steady.
“But they will.”
England's eyes widen by a fraction.
“They won't have a choice.”
And then, quieter.
“We won't have a choice, will we.”
His hands are stained with blood but America doesn't know why.
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(1991)
Russia stares at the map. His lips are pulled down into a frown.
He eyes America from across the table.
“I suppose it's up to you now.” Russia says.
America doesn't know why his brain feels like jagged pieces smashed together. This is supposed to feel good. He saved the world, defeated that villain.
But it doesn't feel like a dream anymore. It doesn't feel like victory.
It feels like waking up and realizing you'd only imagined it all.