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July was, surprisingly, one of the more by-the-numbers months for America.
July 1st, going up north from New York City to Toronto. Landing there by twelve noon latest, America went to celebrate Canada’s birthday with him, not only as a nation, but as his brother. America loved hosting and having his big birthday parties every year, but he appreciated how Canada’s was a more calm, structural affair. Diplomats awkwardly coming to pat Kumajiro - who had a red and white ribbon tied around his neck that Canada had wrestled him into that morning like every year - was always funny. Then there was enjoying finger foods at the official residence, the perfectly manicured lawns and shrubbery perfect the obligatory photo ops with the various diplomats, sometimes with the bodyguards too, who hovered especially in case France showed up that year. It was deliberately designed so that there was no need for Canada to be the life of the party, which was something during the downtime of his own annual birthday parties America secretly wished for. Canada’s birthday, as much as America would never say it out loud, was a sort of warm up for his own.
Usually, however, he’d be on the phone by the middle of the night, in his brother’s guest room, thumbing his fingers over his personal phone, not the BlackBerry that was standard fare for every personified nation. This was strictly personal business, and as nosy as he was, America knew that he did not want this conversation to be overheard by anyone else. America showered, hoping he wouldn’t run into Kumajiro - who was known to wander the corridors at night - and checked his phone again just before bed. Three in the morning, eight in the morning in London. He dug his fingers into the elastic band of his boxers as he scrolled through the messages. Nothing.
It was something as simple as that for America to forget all about the delicious cake with the frozen maple syrup treats, the canoe he’d brought for Canada’s birthday present, the lounge band his brother had hired for the party, the seemingly endless photo ops, trivial things like that. He’d not not received a midnight message - digitally, at least - from Howard for thirty years.
Because every year, since America’s Bicentennial, America had been in contact with Howard - England’s secretary since the conclusion of World War II - to check up on him. Every year. Whether it was a letter by express post or now with the invention of the Internet, America always asked the ever-young secretary to tell him how England was doing. The strange sickness that afflicted England every July that peaked on America’s birthday seemed to have receded significantly ever since his Bicentennial and had taken a sort of pause during the various World Wars according to Howard and his predecessors, but as the world and England along with it had settled down comparatively, America felt his own mind turning to it every year before his own birthday.
But no message from Howard. None at all. America turned his head and burrowed it into the stiff cotton Canada always used for his guest rooms and through some scary miracle, managed to fall asleep for an hour or two. By six and over breakfast pancakes, America was still thumbing through his phone, refreshing the news. Thankfully, the nation of Great Britain and Northern Ireland had not vanished off the face of the earth overnight and he was sure that that would be a breaking news story, so why…?
The sweet, fluffy pancakes soured in America’s mouth as a realisation dawned on him. England had been getting better, slowly, but never entirely recovered. Could things be so bad that Howard’s morning was preoccupied with taking him to the hospital? In the last World Meeting, England had been grumpy as usual, so America couldn’t come up with a single thing that would explain a sudden collapse. There was no way, America thought as his fork rested unusually still on his plate, especially for such a voracious nation. Sure, England still looked kind of rough when he attended America’s birthday parties, but the fact that he was attending them in the first place was kind of a miracle. Not only did America admire England for trying for his sake in the first place, but he was also hoping that, because they were finally close again, at last, then their relationship would…
His phone buzzing thankfully pulled America out of that thought, as Howard’s generic messaging profile photo, a blue bird, popped up on his notifications. America could almost picture the man’s slick backed hair and apprehensive expression as he tabbed open their chat.
Good morning, Mr America.
Hey Howard
And before America could stop himself, he began to feverishly text the secretary, delicious pancakes rapidly losing their warmth:
Oh man, I’m so glad you texted back
How is England? Is it really bad? Did
you manage to get a good spot at the
hospital for him? It’s not usually
busy this time of year, right?
Good thing England would never see nor read his and Howard’s texts, because not only would it expose the embarrassing amount of care America had for him, but also the fact that it would expose the fact that America was capable of using proper grammar and punctuation when he wanted to.
Because England couldn’t know. He couldn’t. If he realised there was a chance to mock America, to express how much he’d hated him from the start, then surely he’d-
Hospital?
Ah, Mr America, you must be quite
mistaken. Mr England
Mr England is perfectly healthy.
A kind of juvenile annoyance rose up in America’s throat that mingled with the relief of the confirmation that England was okay. Howard never messaged him this late, so why was he slipping now? Sometimes, between how Howard ensured that England did not linger too long after a one on one dinner with America after a World Meeting, or being the one to ‘politely’ inform him when England was busy, who could blame America thinking that Howard was trying to keep him away from England?!
But you usually text me at
this time, yeah? Sorry, were
you really busy? I know he’s
busy this time of year
Thank you for your concern
However, it’s not that: it’s good news.
Mr England has not been sick today.
“Mr England has not been sick today.”
A sentence as simple as that was enough for America to scramble from his chair, dislodging one of the legs and almost breaking the thing as he scrambled Air Force One.
England, not having his condition deteriorate at all during July. Healthy and well. Was such a thing even possible? Ever since America could remember, England had been pale and coughing up blood for first, a month, then two weeks after World War II had ended, peaking on the Fourth of July. As the reluctantly scrambled Air Force One jet, having been assured that it was not a national emergency, took off from Canada’s backyard (to his brother’s equal annoyance) to London near noon, America could not help his racing mind. Had England finally been cured? America believed Howard, and he’d known the man for seventy years. In the same way America understood that the man continued to stay in his early-thirties because he was England’s secretary, Howard understood that America would be crazy enough to fly over to London to confirm his claims. Which was a thing that he was doing. Right now. And so, America had to ask: why? Why now?
And why, more importantly, America thought as he looked out the plane window to see the clouds choke out the sea underneath him, why does it hurt?
When the one I love is feeling so much better, then I should…
The flight took seven hours, and for three of them, America’s nightmares were filled with England in red, rain raking over his cheeks.
It was seven at night when America landed into Heathrow. Eight thirty when he parked his car outside of England’s thatched cottage in the outskirts of Greater London, rain falling in sheets on top of him as he knocked twice. By his ankles, the red roses England must have planted were keeling over in the rainfall, the metal surely leaving its stain on America’s hand as he called England’s name.
Ever since England had begun to attend his birthday parties, America had visited him a couple of times. The first time he could remember, he’d come the day after Canada’s birthday on a night similar to this one, and then subsequently called his boss to cancel all his plans because England was deathly pale and coughing up blood. That was when America had understood that the rumoured ‘hundred years of heartbreak’ England had experienced were real, and so he had started asking Howard to take care of him, because up until then, England had kept it a secret from anyone else. Over the years, America thought as he panted in the rain, waiting for England to come to the door, the objective of his July visits were much less so making sure that England made it to his birthday party, but more so that England was okay. After all, wasn’t that what a hero did?
But wouldn’t a hero have confidence in himself, too? To admit to England that he was lonely when he didn’t show up? Independence Day for him meant his own freedom, but it also meant losing that easy, irrevocable bond with England. America knew that that kind of a bond could never be reforged, but he had hoped in these two hundred years that he could have forged a new one with England, yet still…
The door opened, cutting short America’s thoughts, and in the seconds between seeing England again, the young nation had to brace himself. Would he really be completely free of symptoms, as Howard’s text messages seemed to imply? Or would his forehead be laced in sweat, his face turned sallow, his lips stained with that awful red-
“America?”
England peered out of the door at him, clad in a simple white shirt and black pants, all buttoned down except for one. A white shirt. He’d always worn dark colours during July except when he was attending America’s birthday party. Always, to avoid staining the clothes with blood. His tone was unsurprised, unaffected, held in diplomatic stasis. Howard had probably given him a heads up about the fact that America was flying over, not to mention England always retreated to this cottage in the week preceding July since it was constructed in the aftermath of the Cold War.
“America?” England said, nonplussed, “what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
“...you’re…okay.”
England scowled at him, an emotion America had not been sure he was capable of producing in such potent quantities in July until today. “I asked if there was something wrong, brat. Are you not coming to lecture me about coming to your birthday party, hm? I’d be glad to show you my packed bags, if that’s what you’d like.”
Once England quickly realised that America was incapable of doing anything but gawking at him, he sighed, unlatching the door and opening it in the middle of the storm. “Come in. I’ll pop the kettle on.”
Giving himself a little shake, America followed England obediently, lingering near the other nation as he closed the door behind him. He couldn’t help but watch England - the way the other man leaned back slightly on the heels of his feet as he walked in those no-nonsense business shoes, the tug on his watch, the curve of his Cupid’s bow as he exhaled, something that was now visible given that England was not holding a bloody handkerchief over his lips. America noticed everything about England, but it was impossible to tell him. What would England say, if he knew America watched him so closely?
“So, what’s your purpose for coming here? I hope Canada - well, you attended his party, so I hope he was able to receive my present in time. I’m sure he understands why I can’t make it to his party because of a certain other personification’s celebration.”
Because he won’t annoy you like I annoy you? America could only manage a nod as England gestured to a faintly lit area overlooking the garden, a sight that would not be possible in his small London flat. But he doesn’t need you like I need you, England. And I guess that’s fine, but it’s just that he never has. I want you to look only at me.
America wished he could tell truths outside of his head. Especially to England.
England, who hadn’t even so much as coughed as he guided America to their chairs. By now he’d be wiping blood off the corner of his lips, or glaring at America. Usually both. “What would you like to drink?”
“Oh,” America tried not to start in his armchair. “No, uh, I’m good, thanks. It’s kinda late, right?
“Suit yourself,” England said, but instead of disappearing into the kitchen and giving America a few moments to collect his thoughts, England simply remained, sizing him up with those intoxicating, evergreen eyes. “...hm.”
“Y-Yeah?”
“You must have gotten here awfully fast. Or rather, no. You must have departed - Toronto, wasn’t it? Right. You must have departed Toronto very quickly if you’re here on the second of July. Howard notified me this morning that you were looking to visit, but you usually rock up to the cottage sometime tomorrow, hm? So keeping time zones in mind, you must have left very early today.”
America tried not to blush: as always, England had gotten him all figured out with barely a word from him. “Uh, maybe. Called in a favour, y’know. Since Air Force One was in the area for my brother’s birthday, I guess…”
England’s thick eyebrows rose, along with the perfect curve of his Cupid’s bow. “Air Force One? You scrambled them to fly over to see me? Don’t you always fly commercial?”
Shit. Shit shit shit. Come to think of it, America always booked a ticket the morning after Canada’s birthday, and he had been careful to not tell Howard that he’d be flown in through Air Force One this time. His guard was usually up around England for longer, wasn’t it? So why did the healthy looking England, no less bright and bushy tailed than his non-July state, disarm him like this? It was shocking, yeah, but wasn’t it a good thing?
If only America could take England’s lack of sickness during July at face value, then it would be. If America could play the part of a ditzy, brash nation, then he could tease England about it, bicker about it lightly, then the two of them could move on. They’d continue their age-old dance around each other, as Russia sometimes cheerfully called it before America glowered at him. Yet the sickness had taken root since America had received that text message from Howard, and it would not go away, especially not with England looking at him like that. Eyes full of concern, a hint of tenderness in the way the other nation’s head tilted slightly sideways, his lips open, goading America about their unspeakable distance.
Clearing his throat, he had to ask. “Why are you feeling better?”
“Well, it’s a bit mortifying, really,” England said. “I just, well,” he paused for a moment to scratch at the bridge of his slender nose, “it’s just that it seemed to…stop, one day. For no reason at all.”
The hoarseness of America’s voice dug into his own throat as he replied. “No reason?”
“It’s a bit like homesickness, from what I’ve been told. One day it’s an absolute plague on your system, and you can’t function, but one day, it just…goes away.” England made a gesture America could not see given his blurry vision. “I suppose it’s something I’ve grown out of, if that makes sen- America? America?”
“You don’t need me anymore, do you?” America barely heard himself say.
“Need you?” England’s abruptly confused tone pulled him back, yet the younger nation could hear nothing but disdain. “America, I - I don’t know what this is all about, but I have always been a perfectly capable nation. I suppose we may have needed you at some point, but-”
“But you’ve outgrown me, haven’t you?” America felt his own tears corroding the metal of his glasses, threatening to make them fall off. If only it could cut deeper, lower into his clothes, pulling out the part that could make him feel what he had felt ever since the beginning.
Why are you so upset that England’s feeling better?
Because that means he doesn’t need me anymore.
“I - I don’t understand. But I must ask, why did you rush over in such a fuss? I’d thought you’d be happier to see me well.” England’s guard was up, yet he still wasn’t pulling away from America, rather, he was moving forward, closer, in his armchair. “Or are you here to gloat? Do you want me to suffer? Would you prefer me to not attend your birthday party, if you’re being perfectly honest with me?”
“No!” It came out like a sob, and if it wasn’t with England, America would have already ran out of the room. But England always compelled him, made him stay, break down his walls, if not just for a moment. America wanted England’s compliments, his attention, his praise, and all his realisations came crashing into his chest, his ribcage in pain from how acutely he felt all of it. “No, I don’t want you to suffer, especially not because of-”
“Then why all this- all this commotion, Air Force One, all of it-”
“You’ve started to hate me, haven’t you?” America’s shoulders shook as he finally blurted out the truth. “Your hate’s stronger than your grief. You’ve moved past me. You don’t need me anymore, so you’ve stopped being sick. Not as a-” he practically tripped over his chair, fingers finding England’s hand in the dark for one moment before America wrenched it away, missing how England’s fingers clasped over his for one moment, “not as nations, but as people, you and me. I thought that maybe, after so many years, we could have been something else together, but then you’re not sick anymore, and so-”
“America-”
“I’m sorry,” America barely made the words out of his rapidly closing throat as he shakily got to his feet. There was only the sound of raindrops on the glass of England’s window to break his breaths. “Sorry for…making you come to my party. You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to. I’m happy you’re okay, really. It’s just…I shouldn’t have burst in. I was just worried about you. Sorry.”
Turning his heel, he fled to the door as fast as he could, hands pressing on the door and feeling his chest lift with relief as it gave way. Sneakers on the uneven stone of England’s driveway. Tear-wet hand on the dark blue handle of his car. The low purr of the engine roaring to life.
Between the air conditioner and the windshield wipers as he drove, America could not think of why the rain continued inside his car.
July 2nd only had a few more hours of life in it as soon as America went back to the hotel. He spent most of it continuing to melt into the rain with his pillowcase.
July 3rd, America texted an apology to his staff, who had comforted him, but in their usual diplomatic way, that Air Force One was due to make a visit to London anyway and that America only needed to email a terrified cadet that had fainted by the sight of his ten-storey leap from the airplane door to the tarmac. No messages from England, nor any confirmation of his arrival, to be expected. Why would he, after America’s outburst in his cottage?
July 4th. Everyone started to arrive, as usual. Since his move to his New York City penthouse three years ago, America had prepared everything by hand, but there was no denying that a lot of the spectacle was provided by living in New York: the fireworks, the cheering crowds, the balloons being let off.
The Fourth of July was probably America’s most structured day of the year. In the morning, he’d call his staff and his boss to wish them a Happy Independence Day, then send a little video message for everyone in DC for morale, given that personifications were a state secret. Right after that was done, some coffee, then he’d tidy his apartment, set up a place for the fifty or so nations that had told him they’d be coming, then text his staff to open up the bar area for the nations to serve themselves given he still legally couldn’t drink, then work until the first nation (usually Germany) showed up. He’d always ask them to stock bourbon, England’s favourite, but when he was compiling the list this time, sitting in his big beige couch that would be stained with beer later that night, he couldn’t help but hesitate. England always sent a text message. Nothing this year. Would he even come?
You don’t need me anymore, so you’ve stopped being sick.
America craned his head back, staring past the ceiling lights, shut off given that the sun was streaming into his apartment, hand reaching out for his phone. Somewhere to the right, hidden, was a latch he could access by using a ladder, swinging out. The uniforms from the Revolutionary War, the scratched musket, the toy soldiers, everything he’d painstakingly carried by hand during his move, making sure the guys he’d hired hadn’t seen it. The rainy pain in London.
But I need you. I’ve always needed you.
Got it, thanks
Anything else you need?
Could you just get me
the usual bottle of bourbon?
The first nation to arrive was indeed Germany, punctual as ever with Prussia, both brothers bearing beautifully wrapped presents. America showed the two of them around, given they were early, and Germany made thoughtful comments about the bold art deco design while Prussia cooed over his gaming setup and the large plasma television.
By the time France arrived, fashionably late as expected, the party was in full swing: Austria was thoroughly enjoying America’s piano, setting a lovely atmosphere to the apartment that couldn’t be achieved with music players or speakers, a crowd of around eight personifications after dropping off their presents had made a beeline for the bar and were making friendly conversation with America’s staff, and Norway and Denmark were admiring the sunset from the penthouse. France carefully placed down his present near the mounting pile, and America only had a moment to glance over and check that it wasn’t suspiciously shaped before the elder nation sidled up to him.
“What a nice party you have tonight, dear boy,” he said good naturedly, brushing out his fair hair from his violet eyes. “Why, it’s a shame the young master has not gotten here yet. It is not good to see you sulk in a corner, waiting for him.”
“Young master?” America cleared his throat, trying to pretend as if he didn’t know what France was talking about. A twinge of jealousy seemed to spread underneath his honey blond hair and sprint down his blue eyes - had England talked to France and not him?
Thankfully, after a flamboyant sigh and lament, the answer seemed to be no. France waxed poetical about the little rosbif being late, how annoying he was, but how tasteful America’s apartment was and how he had surely taken some design tips from him, France, and, oh, Canada is here tonight and looks dashing, if you don’t mind, I’ll excuse myself! Bon anniversaire, cher Amerique!
“Thanks, France,” America muttered under his breath, but the other nation had reminded him, gently, that he did have to play the role of perfect host, perfect hero, even though the one he wanted to see the most wasn’t there. There was nothing else to do other than to steel his jaw and play pretend, clamping down the loneliness, sealing it away for when all the lights would be out and everyone had returned back to their hotels.
And so America played his part, for a cheerful, receptive audience, complimenting his apartment and his carefully ironed outfit with the slacks and brown overalls, the atmosphere and the alcohol, all of it. Over and over again, in English and what felt like every language in the globe, happy birthday, happy birthday. Still, America kept his heart to his chest and his ears to the door, the click of the knob that would make his blue eyes spark back to life behind his glasses. Some of the more sober nations began to make their way out of his apartment from ten, then the less sober at eleven, and then finally the last stragglers that had remained behind to chat with America more at eleven thirty.
Lithuania was usually part of the group, but America noticed Lithuania on his phone throughout the last half hour or so, made more noticeable by the fact that not only did he usually prefer to use the quieter hours to chat one on one with America, but the fact that he usually left with Estonia and Latvia. As soon as America approached him, though, his friend pocketed his phone as if he was playing an unimportant game and slipped smoothly back into conversation with him until he eventually left, waving goodbye as he left with Canada, the three of them doing some cleanup until just before twelve.
America kept his movie star smile on for another few moments as he waved them goodbye, then slumped against his door as soon as it was closed, gnawing the inside of his cheek. No England. It had been a fantastic birthday party, he thought as he raised his head slightly to look at the still-exploding fireworks, but, despite what he had told him…
Like magic, a knock came at the door. America practically bowled himself onto the floor then opened it-
England, holding a little paper box clad in blue and red, the lower box white. His green eyes flickered in the light of the fireworks, sandy blond hair gray in the darkness.
Then America’s digital watch beeped twelve, July 5th, and then England’s shoulders heaved as he coughed, his palm shooting upwards to cover his mouth. It came out drenched in blood.
America had not said a single word ever since England had come into his apartment. He’d found towels for him, helped him change out of his formal clothes into a set of clothes that fit baggily around his slender frame at best, got him some water and some pills. Sat him on his couch. The little box sat on his coffee table as America approached, having changed out of his formalwear into a shirt and shorts. England’s green eyes looked up at him, luminous now that the fireworks had faded into the early hours of the morning, watching America as he approached the couch once more.
“Hey,” America tried to keep his voice soft, but it came out as a croak as he sat down on the couch, feeling the fabric sag with his weight. “You feeling better?”
England scoffed, but he removed the towel America had given him to show him: not that bad compared to the handful of times America had nursed him back to health before, but there was still some blood on the fabric. “A little. Thank you for the clothes and water.”
“I still ordered some bourbon for you, you know,” America did his best to say it nonchalantly, but he could hear the hopeful twinge in his voice and he was sure that England could hear it as well, and then it was too late to pretend it hadn’t happened. “Can get it from the bar for ya.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” England said. He took another sip of the water, the room quiet enough to hear the clinking of the glass on the glass top of the coffee table. “Perhaps later. Might I ask how the party was? Did the other nations enjoy it?”
Small talk was easy, and so making sure that England wasn’t going into a coughing fit, America let himself continue. “I dunno, I think they did. Lithuania was on his phone for a bit, so I guess that was-”
“Ah. That was, erm, that would be me,” England’s voice was sheepish as he cut in, even as he cleared his throat. “He was, how shall I say it? I was asking him whether or not it would be an appropriate time to join the party, and he was giving me updates. I intended to just give you a greeting and drop off your present before it hit midnight, but, as you can see, it didn’t quite work out.”
“Midnight?”
“That’s when I thought I’d be out of sight, mind you,” England’s words were wry. America couldn’t help but internally thank his people for no longer setting off fireworks, as he could tell that England was intentionally keeping his voice hushed. “So the whole episode could resume in earnest without you wringing your hands and fretting in guilt. But I suppose my plan has clearly failed, given the current circumstances. If you’ll allow me to elaborate.”
Reaching down and clasping the glass between his hands, England cleared his throat once, twice, making sure that the scent of blood didn’t flood the room if he opened his mouth, then continued. “I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before, but as you’ve probably been able to tell, my symptoms have largely subsided over the last few decades or so. I then proceeded to come up with a spell to sort of…delay my symptoms. This year was my first time casting such a spell, so I thought to not overdo it. Now with you rushing in to understand what exactly was happening on the 2nd of July, that I did not account for. How did you find out?”
“Uh, Howard,” America offered, his turn to be sheepish. He could tell England was telling the truth, something he knew was embarrassing for the other nation and hard for his pride, and so, if he was making an effort to be honest, then it was only fair for America to do the same. “I, uh.” He unlocked his phone, scrolling to their messages. “I ask him how you’re doing every year, especially during this time.”
England peered at the screen, one bony wrist emerging from America’s already oversized shirt. “You can use punctuation, grammar and proper sentence structure with my secretary, but not with me?”
“Hey!”
The old spark had relit England’s eyes as he snickered, but soon afterwards, he had given America’s phone back to him. “I see. I suppose that explains why he’s always on my case especially during this month. I can’t believe I have an American mole in Downing Street.”
“So the spell…” America’s blue eyes drifted from England’s face, looking less and less gaunt the more the second hand on his grandfather clock moved clockwise. “It only lasts until midnight, but what happens to the symptoms?”
“I believe the incantation I used just defers the symptoms. So instead of, say, them ending rather neatly at the halfway point of the month, I’d assume they’ll persist until late July.” England rubbed at his dry lips, frowning. “But of course, if you so desire, I’ll keep you updated, though there’s not much to worry about. After all, other than you, I don’t know what causes my condition to deteriorate, or the fact that it’s slowly getting better.”
America nodded. “I guess…they used to last the whole month, and you’d have to stay bedridden for them, right? Now you’re able to go across the Atlantic for me. Not so bad, huh?”
“If you put it that way, I suppose.”
The conversation between the two men lulled for a moment as England kneaded his palms, taking a deep breath, one of the throat lozenges America had rattled around his cupboard for, not knowing that since England had begun attending his parties in earnest, America always had had medicine ready to go for him. On his end, it just felt right to have England back in his apartment, in some way celebrating his birthday, and so America let his gaze drift from the paper box on his coffee table, to how England held his pale forearms to his lap.
Then England spoke. “America,” he said, “I must ask. That day in my cottage…what exactly made you so upset? I suppose that being able to defer my symptoms for a few days was a bit of a shock, but I feel as if you’re not telling me something.”
“Are you keeping secrets from me, America? Why were your countrymen at the dock today so reticent? I - don’t worry, you can tell me anything. I’m the one who’s meant to take care of you, you know.”
“Today’s offensive didn’t go so well, didn’t it? Bloody trenches. Be sure to keep your feet dry, America - pardon? Bollocks. It doesn’t matter: what matters is that you’re here now.”
“You heard…well, that’s nonsense. I don’t mollycoddle you. After all, you’ve been a nation of your own for so many years now. I’m grateful you’ve come to our aid at last. Again. Just stick to me, yes?”
In an instant, America felt his long-held feelings swell against his Adam’s apple, make their way through his windpipe, caress his face into a grin as he realised he had the courage to finally say what he wanted to say.
“Too much of me is tied up in you, England.”
England’s voice was soft. His right hand let go of the towel and reached up to caress America’s face. “How much is too much, America?”
“Everything.”
“That sounds like a very serious problem,” the lopsided corners of England’s lips made America’s heart pound. “I suppose that explains your reaction from the other day.”
“Listen, I…I don’t want you to get hurt. I meant that part. But in a sense…knowing your reaction in July. Knowing everything,” America exhaled to lean into England’s clean hand, “I thought it meant that your body, and hopefully you, still cared about me.”
“Oh, but I do,” England said. “If I didn’t - well, let’s put it this way. Do you feel better now you understand why exactly I stopped being poorly?”
America shifted his legs on the couch, positioning himself so that the two nations were facing each other, though he was careful to not dislodge the coffee table, and by extension, the present England had given him. He could only give England a nod.
“That’s a relief. But I will say, you gave me quite a heart attack, barrelling into my cottage, barrelling back out. Though I must ask you this. What did you mean by needing me? Do you still mean it?”
America had to clear his throat; he was so nervous. “Y-Yeah, I,” he cleared his throat again, his hand moving from his lap to inch towards England’s, “it’s hard to say. But I just can’t, just can’t lose you. Because you being here, with me, especially on this day….I know I’m selfish, but tonight without you here, it just didn’t feel the same. Every year without you, it doesn’t feel the same. So, even if it hurts…I want you to be here. Please just be here.”
England was the only one who could understand him, after all, America thought as England moved from his position, looking much more revitalised as he reached over, taking the gift box off the coffee table and placing it into his lap, maintaining deep eye contact with him.
Because England saw through him. Always.
And America could love no one else for it.