Chapter 1: Wilt

When America returned home with a giant pout on his cute little face, England knew something was wrong. The tyke had been so enthusiastic upon leaving, only pausing to hug the older nation around the leg before dashing off with the armful of violet flowers he had, for some reason, been seeking so desperately for the last who knows how many decades.

England knelt to look his charge in the eye, resting a hand on the boy's tiny shoulder. "What's wrong, lad?"

America sniffed, sky blue eyes watering just the tiniest bit before they were angrily wiped on a no longer pristine white sleeve. "Davie's bein' mean."

"Davie…?" Who in the bloody blazes was Davie? Another of America's animal friends? The boy was rambunctious and prone to exploring the wilds around his little house, so it wouldn't have been a surprise. Hopefully he hadn't angered a bear or some other fierce predator; England wasn't certain he could handle the shock of that happening a second time.

His charge seemed to perk up a little at his inquiry. "Davie's from the village! He has a ton of cool stories and we went explorin' together, and he told me about that purple flower and said he was gonna go find it 'cause he always wanted to see it!" The small smile wobbled. "'Cept he didn't seem happy when I gave them to him. He just threw them in a big box that some old guy was sleepin' in. I tried to make him remember, like this!" England found himself with a face full of wilted purple petals; he hadn't noticed the solitary bloom clasped in America's fist until then. "But he just…" The tears were back, and falling this time, streaking the small face before him. England gathered America up in his arms with a sinking feeling in his stomach, and the boy buried himself in England's neck. "He looked all blank. Like he didn't know me."

"Oh, lad…" England murmured softly, stroking his hair. He had a feeling he knew what happened here, and the prospect of telling America the truth… he didn't relish it.

"'Nd he finally looked like my Davie again, too!" America continued tearfully. "'Cause he'd gotten real big the last few times I saw him and I thought he was mad 'cause I didn't have the flower for him. But now he's little again and I have it and he doesn't remember me…" His voice had degraded to a tiny whimper by the end, and England barely caught his final words. "Does he… hate me?"

"No, of course not." England pulled back just enough so he could see the boy's face. "America… how many times have I visited, since you first met Davie and told him you'd find the flower?" The colony had yet to comprehend the concept of years, but he kept steady track of England's comings and goings.

"Uh… a lot. I can't count that high." More than twenty, then. England did some quick math and realized the real Davie would have to be practically ancient by human standards in this day and age. Ancient, or... Ah. The gentleman in the 'box.'

"America," he said, gently. "Humans don't just get younger. That young man you saw? That wasn't your Davie."

Innocent eyes blinked at him, wide and staring. "Who was he?"

England hummed. "His grandson, perhaps?" America had said Davie had been older the each time they'd met. Like as not he'd had a family of some kind.

"So where's Davie?" Oh, how England wished this wasn't happening, wished he didn't have to damage the pure innocence filling those eyes like the sky over an open plain.

Pulling his favorite charge to him, cradling him in the crook of his arm, England asked, "America, what did the gentleman in the cof— box look like?"

Tiny wrinkles furrowed in the boy's forehead. "Like… Davie when he was big, kind of. Just… more wrinkly and grey-haired and stuff." England half-smiled when the child perked up, having put two and two together – America was naive, but that didn't mean he was any less bright. "Davie was the old guy?"

"Yes, lad." England paused, ruminating on his next words carefully. "That box he was in was called a coffin. It's a place where people's bodies are laid to rest." America only blinked at him, so he continued, with a sigh. "Humans don't experience time the same way we do. What seems like a short while to us can be very, very long to them."

"Is that why Davie didn't remember me?"

England nodded. "And… when humans get old or sick, or when they're hurt very badly… They don't heal like we do. Sometimes they can't get better, and they die." It could happen to nations, too, but it was much more difficult, and England didn't want to lay another burden on America's young shoulders just yet. "That's why Davie was in the coffin, America. He died."

"Oh." America looked down at the wilting flower in his hands. "So when's he gonna wake up so I can show him I got the flower?"

Maybe he's too young to understand, bless him. "Tell you what, lad. How's about I show you how to press that flower so it stays looking nice, and you can show it to him later."

At the time, America hadn't understood what England had meant, but it made him take notice. He began to watch, and, slowly, to learn.

The next time England visited, America had gotten older.

A/N: Bless baby America, filling my heart with so many feels. Thanks to my own America for letting me blab ideas at her and just for generally being fantastic. 3