It was all pointless, wasn't it?

The fights, the arguments, the guns, the blood, the cannons, the death. All in the name of freedom and independence. To break free of your control. To make you weak. To make you humble. To make you see. I wanted you to finally accept that I was all grown up. I wanted you to mourn for me, for your loss.

But it didn't work. In less than a decade you had bounced back and become the largest empire in the world, with almost a quarter of the world under your grasp.

A quarter of the world. God. Even now I can't believe you held that much power over us all. South Africa, Sierra Leone, Australia, India, my dearest brother Canada. You had them and so many others under your rule. How many of them would I have better relations with, better understandings with, if I had stayed? For the price of freedom, had I missed out on a wide, diverse family with nations all over the globe? How many brothers and sisters would I have gained?

Would it have made a difference in your mind?

All I wanted was your acceptance. For you to look upon me as an equal. Someone you could depend on, go to for advice, go out and get hammered with. A friend. A lover.

But I'll always be a child to you won't I? A small boy with bright sky blue eyes and wheat coloured hair, who would laugh over the smallest things like a rabbit hopping around. Who would run and jump and be so excited whenever you came to see me. The boy who would always sneak into your room in the night, and crawl under your covers to snuggle next to you after a scary ghost story or a bad dream; and you, in half sleep or no sleep, would wrap your arms around me and hold me close to your warm body.

Or am I still that angry, rebellious teenager who decided he'd had enough and broke out from your control?

Does it matter? Either way you still don't respect me.

Do you have any idea how badly you hurt me? Every time you insult me, or yell at me, it's like a little piece of my heart dies. But you'd never know that. I always cover up the hurt with stupid smiles and laughter, feigning ignorance so you'll never have to see how much your words kill me. Because they do.

You really have no idea how much I love you, do you? How in love I am with you.

Whenever we're together, and you're over me, inside me, I pretend that you're making love to me instead of the hard fucking I've grown so used to. I imagine you kissing me softly, tenderly, with passion and love and desire. I want you to press kisses along my neck as your fingers slowly slide my jacket off me and pull off my shirt, your lips – thin yet so deliciously pink and inviting – kissing my skin, your tongue licking and teasing my nipples until they turned hard under your ministrations.

I imagine you taking me into your mouth, slowly and teasingly, licking and giving light sucks to the tip of my manhood, knowing how good it feels to me. I can see your seductive lips taking more in, until my entire head is inside that wet cave and God it's making me horny just thinking about that. You taking me into your mouth, deeper and deeper until you've got me deep throated and oh it would feel so amazing! And that tongue, it would continue to caress me as your mouth bobbed and sucked on my arousal, warm hand around my sac until I just couldn't take it any longer and came deep inside your orifice.

Your hands, soft and warm and strong, the residual power from your imperialistic days like electric currents through my skin everywhere they touch, as they pull down the rest of my remaining clothes to leave me stark naked. Exposed and layed out for you, like some new kind of dinner treat instead of a person to share your bed with. And your eyes. So deeply green, like the emerald forests that make up your lands, burning with so much passion and love it makes my heart nearly burst inside my chest.

"You're beautiful." you smile. And you smile with such love and tenderness, it makes me melt. And your tongue would slip into another language; one I don't understand, but I know they are words of endearment, encouragement, and calming as you slip your lubed fingers into me, gently preparing me for you. Those lips would lay gentle kisses all over my face as you whispered loving words in an ancient tongue to me, fingers slipping out to be replaced with something larger, and so much more fulfilling.

"I love you."

Those are the three words I wish to hear you say above anything else. The three sweetest, most beautiful words in your language (our language, I remind myself; you gave me these words). You would whisper them over and over to me softly, in English, Welsh, Scottish, Cornish, Gaelic, Old English, and any other language you were gifted with knowing, over and over and over as we reached our climaxes together, backs arching and body's dripping with sweat and other fluids. You would clean our bodies, not wanting me dirtied with the evidence of our lovemaking, then you would pull me close to you and snuggle me into your body like you did in my colonial days. Your lips would kiss my hair, and I would fall asleep listening to you whisper those three sacred words to me again.

But... it's all just wishful thinking, isn't it? The foolish dreams of a man, no, a boy still, who only wants to feel that unconditional love you once gave him again, only stronger and more meaningful. Yes, our nations had made peace and even reconnected over the centuries since that fateful day in the battlefield, but our human sides have never bonded again. We only ever call ourselves by our official names now: United States of America, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, America, England.

But I haven't heard my true name come from your mouth for centuries: Alfred. And I cannot bear to bring up your true name, Arthur, either. Because everytime that word is on my tongue, threatening to escape, the fear of absolute total rejection and losing what polite relationship we've achieved being broken again, to never be repaired "Special Relationship" be damned.

So, I stay silent. And I pretend to be the ignorant, self-absorbed nation everyone believes me to be, and I allow myself to be seduced by you into your bed for nights of hard and fast fucking, when my heart cries out for more. Even on the rare occasions you allow me to dominate in bed, I cannot try and go slow and pour my love into your skin, because you always growl out to "get a bloody fucking move on it!".

And I know you are capable of love; I've seen the way you treat other former colonies. Even they get more respect from you than I do. Backclaps to Australia and New Zealand (while careful of the koala on his shoulder), soft caring expressions to Canada (whenever you actually remember him), kissing the back of beautiful India's hand (you must really love each other, I think she stayed with you the longest out of all of us)... hell, you even treat France and Russia better than you treat me, and you hate them! Am I really so repulsive to you that you treat me worse than those two?

One day, maybe I'll have the courage to tell you all this to your face... but right now, as I lay here next to you in your bed, and your breathing is even in sleep, all I am able to do is just stare at your beauty, and kiss each of your eyebrows (which do look good on you, in all honesty), and your lips, and whisper a near silent promise before quietly redressing and slipping out of the room:

"One day, I'll tell you how much I love you. And even if you laugh in my face and rip my heart from my chest, it'll be okay... because I'll finally have my answer, and I'll grant you my lands as my body and soul die."

Not moments after the door clicked shut, blonde lashes fluttered open, and sleepy emeralds shone out at the empty space next to him, feeling the warm spot where a second body previously lay. Those fingers touched his lips, face an unreadable mask, and his eyes slid shut again.

And I'll wait until that fateful day comes... Alfred.