Chapter Text
America is young and wild. Everything England despised in a warden. But he was still his. Still his son.
Colony - he was your colony. That was all you ever saw him as, even when you were teaching him how to sing and how to garden. Or when you taught him how to shoot. He was only ever your colony. A symbol of your power. Don't confuse that for love, England.
After America went off and separated himself from England. Went off to make a name for himself, when everyone around him knew that he'd make much more than just a name. England was still in deep denial.
America stares at him in the eyes, a pretty pink lipstick covering his lips, and brown eyeshadow bringing out his intense blue eyes, and England knows they're all damned.
"I'm not your son, Arthur," America whispers, settling himself onto the older nation's lap. England would be a liar if he said that the nation's sultry voice didn't send shivers down his spine.
"We're allies baby, nothing more, nothing less," America whispers, and England ignores all rational, and smashes their lips together.
He can still feel the younger's triumphant smirk against his chapped lips.
///
Arthur will not deny that he is not a good person.
He won't entertain the idea in his head, not even when he's arguing with another nation.
(He will and he does, and he's as guilty as any other nation who dared to dream.)
Sometimes he looks over at the hundred of children - bastards, he's had over the centuries and wonders, if they too sometimes entertain the idea of purity.
They don't stay around enough for England to ever ask them.
If it's not an angry nation or an asassanation meant to hurt, something always kills them off before they make it to their 30th birthday.
Still the other nations mutter under their breaths about his supposed insanity, and Arthur finds himself agreeing.
England doesn’t even pretend. Not really.
After all, it's not like they are any different.
///
They are not the same.
England and Arthur Kirkland may share the same body, but they are not the same person.
England is a cold and cruel nation, who puts up a facade of gentlemanliness around government officials - dropping it when the time is right, sometimes a bit early just for show. He’s a bit dramatic. England will not blink as blood splatters across his cheeks, on his clothes. He will sneer, crinkle his nose in disgust - annoyance, and glare at the offender with his barely human eyes.
Most of the time another nation (France - often), will glance at him with a mockery of a smile, more teeth than lips, blood more often than not, dripping past their chins and staining their clothes.
Sometimes the roles are reversed.
Arthur is nothing like England.
Arthur hates dirty things with a passion. He enjoys reading a good mystery while curled up on his couch and sipping on a delicate tea cup. Enjoys nestling beside the window, reading until the sun goes down. Arthur enjoys small towns and conversing with people about common interests. Likes to bake despite being shit at it. Knits scarves and hats and mitts together and drops a hundred at a time to random charities.
He doesn’t journal, England does.
Journaling is a common pastime for nations.
On the south side of his library, England has a bookcase. It's old, dating back to the time during the Middle Ages, and it's filled to the brim of leather bound journals. It's enchanted with magic, and no matter how hard Arthur tries to destroy the darn thing - it doesn't want to go.It stays and mocks him from against the south side of the wall.
Arthur hates journaling with a burning passion, though he does enjoy free writing every now and then.
Arthur and England do have one thing in common though.
Neither will ever admit it when they love, not until they are beaten down to their knees and it’s forced out of their throats.
///
“I love you,” England rasps out, tears falling down his cheeks as he looks at the boy, his son, standing before him.
“You don't,” America snarls, eyes cold and hard (glassy orbs of blue, pretty crystal-like tears running down gaunt cheeks). He points the rifle to England's chest, directly at his heart, and shoots.
The world goes dark.
///
The lights pop and flash to the beat of the music, and the young nation sways his hips to the sound.
America is wearing a dark leather jacket - that hugs his body well. It leaves little imagination when he lifts his arms and the bottle of beer over his head, and twists and sways his body in tune to the music. He presses the mouth of the bottle to his own, downs the drink in one go. Closing his eyes as he does. He opens them only to be met with the green eyes of Arthur.
Arthur frowns, such past times are not something he likes. England on the other hand...
The younger nation playfully smirks.
“Aww giving up so soon?” America sneers, the English nation blinks before rolling his eyes. He flashes the dirty blonde man a cocky grin before whisking the other into his arms. America is momentarily stunned before he lets out a peal of drunk laughter.
They smash their lips against each others’, uncaring of who could be watching. They pull away, acutely aware of purple and blue eyes glaring holes into them.
///
Arthur has a big secret.
He won’t tell them.
He won’t tell her.
and it will cost them their life
Their big blue and brown eyes look up at him in awe and love.
Is this what it feels like to be human?
It’s a wonderful feeling.
He loves it.
France stands at the doorway, watching him break apart, as England - no Arthur is once again reminded why love doesn't exist for monsters like him.
The French Nation doesn’t smile, doesn't speak. The carnage speaks millions of words.
The only word he can focus on is “sorry.”
///
They’re dead,
they’re dead,
they’re dead,
they're dead.
France stares at him with almost pity in his eyes.
Francis.
It’s been a while since they have last spoken to each other,
“I love you,” the french man whispers oh so tenderly, filled with hope and joy that fills Arthur’s stomach with glee.
“I love you too,” Arthur admits, smiling fondly.
Not even a century later and Francis is taking those words back, as the English man tears out his throat.
Love between nations never lasts.
Instead he just continues to stare down at the English man who has once again lost it all. Before he leaves.
“Sorry.”
It’s centuries too late.
///
He can’t help but look for them.
The family he once had, he gripped between his palms until they were ripped out of his palms easily. He never finds his wife, and he supposed he never will.
The only people that ever get reincarnated are those with nation blood in them.
He finds them a century later, exactly the same as how they were 100 years before.
Their names are different, but it’s them.
Arthur knows.
He always remembers his children.