In true Hetalia fashion, although the first scene is portayed in canon, I've taken liberties and it is not a word-for-word replication. The rest might as well be blatantly AU because it depicts scenes of WWII without the involvement of deserted islands. All historical details are correct to my knowledge; correct me if there's something wrong. Human names are used; a personal preference when I wrote this.

Largely inspired by Death Cab For Cutie's Crooked Teeth. In light of that, you can see my creative titling.

Warning for potentially sensitive issues. Not much here, but in chapter two when the modern parts start. I will state here and now that I am not making any kind of point by writing this fic other than I think that England and America are cute together.

One issue with parenthesis about three-quarters of the way down. In the letter, -word- is meant to be a strikethrough. Like it's been crossed out on the paper.

Disclaimer- heh, I wish. Edited 18/6/2012- it was about bloody time- cosmetics and grammar, minor re-wordings.

Onwards for fic. Hope 'tis enjoyed.

4/7/1776. America.

The battlefield froze. Arthur locked eyes with Alfred across the barrel of his musket.

His hands started shaking, and it wasn't from the cold.

With a scream, Arthur threw the musket to the ground. "Damn it, I can't! Why can't I pull the trigger?" He fell to his knees, head clasped in his hands and tears blending with the raindrops.

Alfred looked down at his mentor, and felt the sadness rise inside of him where he'd once loved the older country like a son did his father. He felt tears pricking at his own eyes, but refused to let them fall.

"Say it," he whispered, voice lost in the wind. He cleared his throat, and tried again. "Say it!"

Arthur raised his head slowly, green eyes dim. Alfred knew how much he was hurting, but couldn't let this go.

"Do you surrender, England?" He asked clearly, with deliberate emphasis.

Arthur remained silent, staring up at his colony. His soon-to-be former colony. His adopted son. His, perhaps, greatest creation- and therefore greatest failure.

He knew he was still crying; the tears were hot on his cheeks whereas the rain was cool. Alfred still looked so young, so inexperienced as he stood there disarmed and soaked to the skin.

It was one distinction he could make. The last twist he could add to the God-damned war. Mechanically, Arthur made himself answer the other country's question.

"Yes, America." Arthur paused and gathered the remains of his pride. On his knees, there wasn't much left to collect. "I surrender."

Because America was standing there disarmed yet still victorious. Because America hadn't won the battle, or even the ongoing war.

Merely because, faced with the options that were: shoot Alfred or lose, Arthur had chosen to lose.

He had failed his country, his monarchy and his soldiers, all for the sake of an empty hole in his heart.

He hung his head against the American celebrations and let the tears silently fall.

Richmond, Virginia. Letter dated 3/12/1860.

Dear Arthur,

I know you still nurse the anger from nearly a century ago. I'm not going to apologise for that.

I don't know why I'm doing this, really. I figure I won't get a reply. Though... it would be nice.

It's just... once, I must have been really small still, I heard Francis talking about your civil wars. About what it took for you to get through them.

People in the know are careful not to say too much around me. But I hear things sometimes, and I get scared. Really scared, so that it's making me sick, worse than when I had to eat your cooking.

I say one year. I think there's going to be civil war. It's terrifying.

If I asked, would you help me?

Alfred.

London, England. Letter dated 5/3/1866.

Mr Jones,

You survived. What more do you need?

Sincerely,

Arthur Kirkland.

When the letter came, only his monarch's order stopped him throwing it into the fire. Arthur had been forced to open it in his ruler's presence, to make sure he actually read it and didn't just cast it aside.

Dear Arthur, had made him start. By what right did the brat address him so familiarly?

Though... it would be nice. He snorted. The boy remained hopelessly optimistic, it seemed.

I get scared. Arthur paused, and reread the last sentence. I ('m) scared.

Would you help me?

Arthur crumpled the letter in his fist and strode from the room. Now he knows how it feels to be betrayed.

He waited. Every time a courier made it into Richmond, Alfred would be among the rest of his people, eagerly hoping to have his name called out. Every time, his hope sunk a bit further as everyone but him appeared to receive mail from their nearest and dearest.

Every time he ventured into the crowd, he heard more and more whispers, accusations, proclamations.

He grew more and more fearful for his Southern states, some in particular: Virginia, where he'd been staying for the last few years, which seemed to be in the thick of it all, and the Carolinas, which were more and more outspoken every week. He had begun to hate the words 'Confederacy' and 'secession', even when previously the latter had provoked feelings of great pride.

"I'm seceding, from you, England! You can't stop me!"

The words created an entirely new feeling when he was the one being screamed at- by the part of himself tied to his Southern people. It was the little voice in the back of his head, the rebel, the one that always got him in trouble pre-independence.

He decided early on in 1861 that it was a good idea to return to the North, to see what was happening in Boston and New York.

He realised the whispers were just as vicious. And then, in a few short months, they were no longer whispers. He was thrown into another war, this time by Lincoln's will, but he was against his own people.

It had taken two years of fighting to stop himself throwing up after a battle.

It had taken another two to make him hope again, that there might be an outcome that didn't leave him broken.

On the victory of the USA over the Confederacy, four years later, he had almost smiled. But only until the courier had come through the camp, and once again left him letterless.

"Mr Jones?"

The voice disturbed the blond reading at his desk with glasses perched on his nose. He blinked, checked the page number and only then looked up to see who had called him. "Yes?" he asked, not recognising the person.

"Letter for you," the man said, holding out an envelope. "Postage mark from London."

Alfred blinked again. And stared. The man was beginning to think the nation had been damaged in the war after all, when he leapt to his feet and covered the distance to the door in seconds. "Let me see it!" Alfred demanded, suddenly like a child.

"Here, take it," the man shoved the letter into grasping hands and left the nation to it. But something inside him yelled, look back. See what you've delivered that means so much to your country.

Although not normally a superstitious man (it was a dangerous thing in these times), he turned and glanced around the door frame, expecting to see America smiling, perhaps with a hand clasped to his chest, or something similarly sickening.

But the nation was crumpled on the floor, surrounded by small pieces of paper. As the man watched, America methodically gathered every scrap into a pile, before hurling that pile into the fireplace.

Uncomfortable, the man drew back from the scene. He pretended not to hear the quiet cries.

Paris, France. Letter dated 22/1/1941.

Mon Angleterre,

Allow me to be among the first to call you a royal idiot. Non, I doubt I am the first, I expect it has been said many times already.

We need his help. My people have already fallen, and despite your confidence in your pilots I cannot believe that you will keep the Axis at bay forever. Don't let your routing of Italy go to your head; he is the most useless of the trio.

I am sending this via secret courier. I imagine that if caught, he will lose his life. So let that impress upon you the seriousness of the situation: one too great to be influenced by petty hurts from centuries past.

Here and now, we need his help. If you called, he would answer.

Francis.

North Africa. Letter dated 12/12/1941.

You bastard, Francis.

Don't presume to impose your weaknesses upon me. England will never be conquered without his consent so long as one Englishman still breathes.

We have beaten that German wanker back once before and we will do so again.

I have no idea how you are getting your news nor what sort of news that might be, so I will tell you now: he has declared war on Japan in retribution for Pearl Harbour. As per Churchill's orders, I have also done so. Like any good ally should.

Don't even think of smiling. It was simply orders, end of thought.

We do not need to talk, we do not need to write and we do not need to forgive each other. Old hurts are not so easily forgotten, wine bastard, shouldn't we know this better than anyone?

I'm no longer 'your England'. Keep your damn pronouns to yourself.

And for a while, the system held: while they were posted on different fronts; while the communications network developed by the Allies was new and undetected by the Axis. In meetings, they either ignored each other or started a blazing argument, which more often than not led to Arthur storming out and getting roaring drunk with his off-duty soldiers.

Alfred, more often than not, was left to brood in his general's tent and to wonder where the hell it had all gone wrong.

North Africa. Letter dated 17/10/1942.

Mr Jones,

My Minister requests your country's assistance in the North Africa advance. Given that the nations' network is more secure than the Allies', he asked me to relay this request to you and through you, your own generals.

Regards,

Arthur Kirkland.

Letter dated 5/11/1942.

Mr Kirkland,

Our General Eisenhower is en route.

'Regards',

Mr Jones.

They hadn't expected to meet face-to-face, despite now sharing a frontier. On the whole (maybe from their subconscious lead), the Americans didn't mix much with their English allies.

Alfred was the first to move. He punched Arthur on his left cheek. The smaller nation (who had been idly wondering when he'd started looking up to his former colony) reeled with the blow and groaned, but said nothing. His head was woozy from the whiskey he'd been drinking with his troops.

"Damn you!" Alfred hissed. "Damn you and your country and your whole damned war!" He spun on his heel and left the tent that Arthur had inadvertently stumbled into while more intoxicated than was good for him.

Letter dated 1/3/1944

Dear Sirs,

I respectfully request to be moved to the Normandy attack force. I believe my presence there could greatly hearten our men.

Yours Faithfully,

Arthur Kirkland.

The Prime Minister put the letter down, frowning. Yet, the nation made a good point. Anyone with a basic grasp of strategy could see the desperation of this tactic; somebody was needed to lift moral. And countries died with much more difficultly than mortal men.

Still frowning, he signed 'approved' at the bottom of the letter, and handed it back to the silent herald. He didn't question why his nation had really made such a request.

Rome, Italy. Letter dated 1/6/1944.

What the hell, Iggy?

I knew you'd left for another front, but I didn't think you'd be desperate enough to get away from me that you'd volunteer for Normandy.

Do you really hate me that much?

(Paris, France. Letter dated 22/9/1944.

L'Amerique,

I was uncertain whether to send the enclosed communiqué on or not... then decided that no matter how bad, you've retained enough of moi to want to hear it from him.

Francis.)

Paris, France. Letter dated 18/9/1944.

Don't call me that.

You are labouring under the mistake that I actually care about anything concerning you. I am past hate, past caring, past giving a bloody toss about anything you say or do or think, if such an action even occurs in your head.

You are also under the impression that my entire world revolves around you. Let me correct you in the easiest way possible: it doesn't.

If anything I have said is unclear to you, ask somebody who does care.

And Francis, if you dare censor this, I will -

Alfred put the letter down on the table. He knew Arthur hadn't ever really forgiven him. He knew the other nation would be hurting from the war, in which he'd probably suffered more than Alfred had, being that much closer to Germany.

He knew that, to make matters even worse, the V2 bombs recently developed by Germany had killed civilians on Arthur's home soil.

And most hurtful of all, he knew without a doubt that this letter had been seared into Arthur's heart and soul years before it had ever been set to paper.

For the first time in some centuries, Arthur felt ashamed of his actions (not that he'd ever admit it).

He remembered thinking the words many times in the past. He remembered thinking how nice it would be one day to let it all out and tell the American exactly what he truly felt. It was... liberating.

Then he remembered feeling so regretful and sad and lonely when there'd been no reply to his last letter, even if (there wasn't any doubt of it being anything else) it would only have been to yell straight back at him.

Even as he thought about it, his mind was selecting the words and his hand was reaching for paper and pen...

Berlin, Germany. Letter dated 9/5/1945.

If this has been thrown straight into the fire, I understand.

And you should know that if that's the case, you are more like me than either of us wish you to be. If that's the case, this will be much easier to say.

By the way, if this has been thrown in the fire, there will be an exact copy sent to you again in a month's time. This has to be said (much to my disgust).

Alfred checked the handwriting against another letter he'd received from his once-patron. The letters matched; it was from Arthur.

He wondered if the nation had been drunk with victory while writing it.

Above all else, I strive to be a gentleman. And for your assistance these past few years, I owe you a most horrifically large debt. Not just for your weaponry, but for your medical advances which saved so many of my people on that day.

Alfred thought back to D-day, when he'd waited anxiously by the radio for the casualty lists and prayed that Arthur's stubbornness in practically every aspect of his life would be enough to see the nation through the fighting.

This had been before he'd received the bastard's reply, however.

I didn't know how to put this without sounding cold and formal. So... you should know, that in light of my debt,

If you call, I will answer.

Arthur Kirkland.

Alamogordo, New Mexico. Letter dated 31/7/1945.

-Mr Kirkland- -Iggy- Arthur,

-I swear you've got some sorta bipolar disease-

D'ya know, I checked the handwriting and everything when I got that? I didn't know what to make of it.

I'm not gonna call for you. Not now, not ever, 'cause I want to ask this instead:

I know, back then, you weren't going to ask for my help. I know you only declared war on Japan because Churchill told you to (I was sorry to hear he'd gone, I respected him).

Thank him for me. You wouldn't've -written that- said anything otherwise, and then we'd still be ignoring each other.

But what I'm trying to say, is, I know you know what it's like to follow orders against your will.

Remember that, please?

That's how I want 'our gentlemens' honour' to be repaid.

Alfred Jones.

Alfred set down the pen and wondered whether he should send the letter or not. He'd returned home, mindful that while the Europeans had their victory, he had an issue to settle with Japan.

And then Truman had dropped a figurative bomb on him.

Actually, the bomb was literal. That was the worst part of it.

But. Loyalty to himself before anyone else. He was bound by his leader.

But... if this works half as well as he's hoping, it'll be... beyond awful. Alfred frowned, mind made up. He stood up and ran to catch the evening post collection.

He ignored the sidelong glances and whispers. He didn't want to hear them.

The countries' world meeting was unusually subdued. While their leaders were talking of peace and new dawns together in another room, they had congregated without a real reason except to compare war hurts and settle the last arguments.

Everyone was avoiding him. They stared and muttered behind raised hands when they thought he wasn't looking, but he knew they were talking about him.

"Because they've never had their government do anything so horrible," he growled. Germany had been under his Fuhrer's orders to create a mass genocide, and yet they weren't being so wary around him.

Unable to stand it any longer, Alfred rose and left the room. Arthur didn't glance his way as he passed the older nation, and it was especially painful with his memory of a phone call on the 16th August.

"Mr Jones? Call for you on line 1."

"Patch it through." He waited for the dial tone to subside. "Alfred Jones speaking."

"Mr Jones. I wanted to congratulate your president on his victory." The voice was sharp, acerbic even.

"Iggy!" Alfred shot up in his seat, swinging his feet back off the desk as his did so.

"Don't call me that. For God's sake, don't call me that right now."

"Ig- Art-" Alfred stumbled, wondering what to say. "Mr Kirkland-"

"Atomic fission, Alfred? The death tolls are still rising, still reporting more and more people killed by just one weapon!"

"It wasn't me!" Alfred used his only defence, pitiful as it was. "I had no idea what they were developing!"

"Have you even seen Japan since you attacked him? He's still in a coma. China is furious with you."

Alfred's temper snapped. "And you've never put any of us in a coma? You've always known when to stop before we can't take it anymore?" He remembered the tiny countries he'd seen once in passing, little children with dark skin and old eyes, South Africa, Nigeria, Uganda...

He heard no reply for some time. The pone buzzed lowly in the background.

"Apparently not," Arthur said, voice soft. "I'm sorry Alfred, I just had to know."

"Huh? Mr- Iggy, what are you-"

"Goodbye."

And the older nation hung up on him.

"Alfred! Damn it Alfred, wait!"

The nation paused, before deciding to ignore Arthur's order. It wouldn't be the first time, after all. He gave a wry smile at the thought.

"Alfred! Get your backstabbing, seceding arse back here now!"

Alfred turned, furious, and found Arthur much closer than he'd thought the other nation was. They were barely a foot apart.

"Backstabbing?" He echoed, disbelief evident. "You stabbed me first!" In a way, he was glad for the distraction, the comforting familiarity of arguing with England.

"I made your laws. I'm allowed to change them." Arthur shook his head. "Was. Anyway, that's by-the-by for now."

That shut Alfred up like nothing else. His jaw gaped open in surprise. "Say what?" Iggy was letting it go?

"Look- the phone call. I needed to know- I needed to check- I had to know you hadn't wanted any part of it." Arthur spoke in a rush, words tumbling out.

Alfred stood mute, thinking. Then he whispered, "How could you think I might have wanted any part of that?"

"I- You wanted to win, and it was the easiest way for you-"

"I-!" Alfred grabbed Arthur by the wrist and pulled him into a small alcove. "I've told my president I'd have no part of another strike. He wouldn't agree to destroy them, but he, and any and all successors will be told that the moment they authorise an atomic strike, I'm gone." He shook his head cynically. "You're right; it probably saved hundreds of American lives... but... I can't explain it. There's just something... wrong... about them." They feel so... unheroic, he'd thought, but he'd be damned if he said that out loud.

He was supposed to be the righteous winner; it shouldn't feel so tainted.

Arthur had an eyebrow raised. It almost looked like a fringe. "You could take over the world with half a dozen of these bombs. Nobody else has them."

"Maybe that's it. Maybe it's the power." Alfred's voice was only a murmur, and Arthur strained to hear it. He was abruptly reminded of the child Alfred had been, playing with toy soldiers over a rug made to resemble a world map.

Suddenly, Alfred grinned, completely dispelling the seriousness of the situation. "You know me, Iggy. I'm too lazy by half to rule the world. I'd just make you rule it for me."

Arthur blinked at the sudden change in mood, automatically muttering, "Don't call me that." He realised Alfred didn't want to talk anymore, and left it there. "I'm getting too old to rule the world again," he continued, fixing a smug grin on his own face.

Alfred smiled, an open, honest expression that made Arthur's heart clench. Yes, he'd known all along why everything between them had hurt so much.

"Thanks, Arthur," he said, before turning and walking away.

Arthur watched him go, smiling. He returned to the meeting room and took his seat next to Francis. The bearded nation opened his mouth.

"Don't say it," Arthur warned him.

So Francis smirked instead, and returned to his conversation with a morose Feliciano on how exactly to make his 'Doitsu' forgive him. If the Italian had the backbone to do half of what the Frenchman was suggesting, he'd give up all rights to his overseas territories.

Six days of hoping and wondering later (had they really understood what each other meant?), when Arthur got a short message in the post from the States, he had to smile.

I'm glad we're not so alike after all.

It was so unbelievably Alfred, self-congratulating and rude and impossible to be truly angry at.

He made sure his reply emphasised the necessity of two people being needed to mend a broken bridge.