Notes & Warnings:

Not written to be completely historically accurate. It is based on the Boston Tea Party, the ships named mentioned actually are the names of the ships that had tea dumped into the bay. All the Ships were owned by an American company, only the tea was British. The ships were in a dead lock, they couldn't go back to England but they couldn't unload their tea.

I don't own Hetalia.

He's dressed in an almost comical fashion, imitating the natives he doesn't remember before England's attempts to drive them out of the way for his colonies. He doesn't remember his life before being found by England, by France, by all the European and Nordic countries; a life where he was a very small child living in the style that he now mocks. England, he's a sore spot in his life now, an overbearing presence that demands his money and his strength but refuses to see him as an "adult". These colonists, they see him as a man, as their country. So he dresses in the comical fashion that mocks his heritage, black war paint replaced by a paste created from ashes of the blacksmith's fire and water, feathers in his hair, and a tomahawk at his belt. He fights away the memories of happier times, and tries to concentrate on what he's going to do.

He blends in with the other hundred or so people who have turned out to participate. He feels the thrill of the crowd, the daring in them and the anxiety. If they are caught, oh it will be treason and hell to pay. He thinks it's worth it. They continue on up towards the three ships they will be relieving of their stock, and he can't decide which one he wishes to help on first. How will they get away with this? His mind drifts back as he follows others blindly, heading for the Dartmouth, and he thinks of a happier time when tea wasn't a big deal.

"Iggy, let's have a tea party."

"You're a boy America, boys don't have tea parties."

"But, but you said we could do whatever I wanted."

He shakes his head to clear it as they slide on board. It's his ship, not England's though the tea most definitely is. He stopped drinking tea ages ago, when the taxes started rising on it to begin with. Giving a nod to one of the men with him, one of the crates was opened, and with four or five men lifting it, heaved heavily over the side of the ship. The splash in the bay is a very satisfying sound, and Alfred can't help but give a grim smile as the process is repeated. Again and again, the crates are ripped open and thrown over the side of the ship to make a splash in the harbor. He leaves these to their work and slips off towards the Beaver, mind dancing backwards in time as he see the tea floating in the harbor on his way between ships.

"You said we could do whatever I wanted," he protested giving England his best kicked-puppy look, a look that couldn't be denied by the older country. He sees the resolve of his "big brother" wavering and he kicks the look up into level two.

"Very well," he says, face one of defeat, and he doesn't match the little boy's smile in his own as he's lead off to the crude kitchen of the home that was hastily erected years ago when he first found the little colony. He takes the time to prepare the tea and sandwiches as America gather's up some of "his friends" which include a bunny, a puppy from someone's home no doubt, and what looks like a doll made out cornhusks. All of the "friends" are set at the table much to England's dismay, but if it makes the colony happy, he'll endure it.

The tea party starts, and America is very talkative, telling England everything from the weather to what he's been doing since the last time his "older brother" had a chance to visit him. Everything is so covered in childish innocence that England cannot help but smile a sad smile as he remembers the innocent childhood he had not had. There had always been war in his country after Rome had left, and he had never had the indulgences like this except with the fairies.

"Iggy, are you listening to me?"

He blinks and finds himself on board the Beaver in the middle of tipping a crate of tea into the harbor. He doesn't know how he got here, but he simply shrugs it off and uses his strength to haul a half-full crate over the edge of the boat by himself. There's no doubt in the men's minds that this is in-fact their country, helping in their rebellion. He throws the tea over, crowing as he does so, not caring if he's heard. Let them hear him. Let them rush back to England; tell him what he's done. He doesn't care as he helps them continue on with this act of rebellion. He wants him to know.

"Iggy, are you listening to me?" he demands, waving a small fist in front of the older nation's face. When green eyes flicker and look at him for the first time in several minutes, he frowns at him before launching back into what he was talking about. It was about something one of the "states" had told him, but he can tell England's mind isn't on what he's talking about. Well there's only one way to get the other's full attention. He sticks out his bottom lip and bursts straight into tears, secretly pleased when England seems to snap out of what he's been thinking of and reaches towards him. He crawls out of his chair and moves over to England who picks him up.

"Whatever am I going to do with you?"

He'll be furious when he finds out, America realizes, but he finds he doesn't care. The "tea party" is coming to a close, and now he's leading the colonists away, melting away into the darkness. They're going back to their lives, lives that don't directly involve the personification of their nation or his "father/big brother". They'll not feel the direct sting of England's fist, they'll not hear him yelling, but they'll feel the taxes. He wonders slightly whatever he'll do now, what will be the next blow? What will be the final straw, and as he disappears off into the night, heading back towards that cabin that holds many memories he'd rather not think of now, he almost hears that voice echoing in the darkness.

"Whatever am I going to do with you?" He pauses as he thinks he hears it, before continuing towards home as he answers aloud, to himself and to the voice he thinks he hears.

"You're going to let go…. you're going to let go of me…."