So this time a year ago I hadn't even heard of Hetalia: Axis Powers but, you know, I figured I'd jump on the bandwagon as far as today goes – today, of course, being 4th July/Independence Day in the United States of America, the one damn US holiday I missed despite having been in the USA for a whole academic year and, according to Hetalia canon/fanon/whatever, the official/unofficial/whatever birthday of the series' personification of the USA, Alfred F. Jones.

What I'm saying is that I am well aware that the Hetalia section today is probably swimming with fics posted because of 4th July, for 4th July, about America/his birthday party/how much England bitched about the whole thing as he steadily got more and more drunk before they went upstairs and had explosive sex which almost got derailed because they had an argument halfway up the staircase.

(FYI, I'm British and, as a British person, can vouch for the fact that, contrary to popular belief, we totally got over the whole independence thing. Mostly. At least enough to start selling you Twinings Tea for an unfair price all over again.)

Anyway, I kind of jumped on the bandwagon, at least – because this is a Hetalia fanfic posted on 4th July and it is, more or less, about America.

However, two non-bandwagon things to take into account:

One: I always post something on 4th July. I am still not sure why, exactly, but I do. O.o

Two: This isn't about America's birthday. It is, in fact, TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE for Independence Day. XD

Finally, a warning: I never warn for fanfics, generally preferring to just spring horrible surprises (likempreglol) on people, but this time I'm going to because I am well aware that one of the things in this fic might well be regarded as a kink and, therefore, not everyone's preference, and I don't want to squick anyone by just throwing it in their face, soooooooooo...

SHOTA. YEAH. IT'S IN HERE. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED. (It's consensual but only because America is fucked up in the head.)

Oh, and this is a two-shot, mostly because it's so monstrously long.

Pater Noster

[Patriarch. Patronise. Patricide. Patriotism.]

'To retrieve their manhood from its British guardians, the Sons of Liberty carried out a symbolic patricide. "Having left the British parent as a child, America miraculously becomes capable of its own nurturing; independence transforms the son into his own parent, a child into an adult"...'

- Michael S. Kimmel, Manhood in America: A Cultural History

I – E Nomine Patris

"Hey," America whispered (but whispered because he was half-breathless, not because he cared about where they were), "hey, you want... you want me to call you Daddy?"

"Absolutely not." England's tone was absent, dismissive. He tugged insistently at America's flight jacket. "For god's sake, take this blasted thing off, boy! It belongs in a bloody museum!"

America laughed, moving with the motion of it, giggle-shrugging out of the leather jacket.

"That's rude, coming from you," he said mildly. "Your whole house is a fucking museum, right? Everything in it must be like an antique or something – including you, hahaha." He spoke his laugh, not a true one, more like sarcasm, but he was grinning even so, eyes bright behind his glasses even though it was dark in here; shifting back against the door of the closet, bracing himself against it as the old jacket, cracked in the usual creases, pooled in a crumpled semi-circle behind his feet.

"You are severely trying my patience, Alfred."

"Tch, you always say that." America rolled his eyes up towards the plain ceiling of the narrow closet – barely wider than a damned coffin, come to think of it – and rocked back and forwards, against the door and against England, as his tie was unknotted and his shirt halfway undone.

"I always mean it." England left the shirt and went to America's belt, unbuckling it without having to look.

"Ah, you'd get bored of me if I didn't," America replied confidently. "For sure."

"Full of yourself, aren't you?" England popped his buttons for him, the zip coming down easily once they were loose.

"You make it so easy for me," America said helpfully, cheerfully, leaning forward and kissing him; grinding himself appreciatively into England's palm when it slipped inside the open 'v' of his suit trousers and those fingers, thin and firm (but gentle, gentle like they'd always been), moulded easily around the shape of him through his shorts.

"And besides," he went on, breath catching again as he leaned away from the kiss, back arching against the closet door, "you... ah, I-I mean... don't say things like that when we're... 'cause, you know, it j-just... it just makes me want to say... to s-say—"

"You'll be full of me."

"Ha, fuckin' mindreader..."

"No, you're just predictable."

"Nah, that's not... ah, fuck...!" America shuddered under his touch and England smirked, bending his wrist for better purchase.

"Language," he tutted.

"Yes, Daddy."

England grabbed him and America positively thrashed.

"I told you not to call me that."

"Yeah, now. You liked... liked it last time...!" America attempted to kick him and missed, almost losing his balance.

"I most certainly did not." But England relented his grip, his punishment, and America slumped against the door – hissing, cursing, but not mouthing off.

"You were saying?" England prompted in a sick-sweet, gentle tone, removing his hand from America's underwear altogether.

"I... I was..." America gasped in recovery, shoulders heaving. "Jesus, you're brutal..."

"Well, you need to learn, don't you?"

"Mm." America, not a fast learner, merely seized this new opportunity to wind him up, smirking. "Oh, I've been a bad boy – I need to be punished, right? Teach me a lesson, Daddy."

"America! You behave yourself, young man, or I'll—"

"What will you do? Spank me?" America grinned at him, observing the look on his face. "Aww, don't get all embarrassed, Arthur. Your secrets are safe with me."

"Oh, I shan't spank you," England sighed. "I shall merely injure you to such an extent that you won't want me touching you for at least three months."

America was quiet for a moment, then gave a light, odd little giggle.

"Touché," he said, and he settled.

England hummed contently in response. His hands, his voice, his demeanour, all were calm once more, kind, almost tender, but America knew. He remembered. England was tiny (much smaller than America now that America was fully grown) but he was damned vicious when it pleased him to be so.

(He had once been much wilder. America didn't think he had ever seen it, not really, but he could read the looks on France and Spain's faces. They didn't envy him in the slightest – even if France had once insinuated, years ago, that it had been England's taking care of America than had begun to calm him down.

"Believe what you will of him," France had muttered as he and America had carried drunk, passed-out England back to the barracks between them, "and depending on your thoughts, I might be inclined to agree, but he liked looking after you. You created something in him. I had never seen him that way before."

"I don't think you'll ever see him that way again," America had replied ruefully, eying the galaxy of bruises on England's pale face courtesy of Germany after the former had almost murdered Italy on the North African front and the latter had found out about it.)

"Come on, brat, we don't have all day," England snapped. He was finally working on his own belt, shrugging off his navy blazer as he did so. "Actually, I think we have about ten minutes until everyone gets back from lunch."

"Yeah... yeah, okay..." America never had finished what he'd been meaning to say – that it wasn't that he was predictable, it was probably just that he'd made such an awesome joke before and England had been so impressed by it that he'd remembered – but it didn't seem to matter anymore, not when he was matching England blow for blow in the taking-off-restrictive-lower-half-clothing area.

Ten minutes. That was disappointing. Time enough, but disappointing. England had practically promised him a blowjob earlier whilst they'd eaten their own lunch at record speed in a distant corner of the cafeteria (even if he hadn't exactly said it in so many words because it had been damned obvious that France and Prussia, who hadn't even been invited since he wasn't even a proper nation anymore, were trying to listen to their conversation and hadn't let America even touch him as they'd walked out as inconspicuously as possible because, really, it had been totally conspicuous and at least half of the other nations had glanced slyly, knowingly, at them on their way out – France, Japan, Hungary, Poland, Italy, Greece, Prussia, Spain, Romano, China and, in a way that was oddly disconcerting, Germany) and now he wasn't going to get it. England was obsessed with that being-on-time crap and all, which meant they had ten minutes to do it and get the hell out of the closet before everyone came back, not ten minutes to spend.

Sure enough, England's mouth went no lower than America's throat, tongue tracing the hollow of it, lapping the sweat that pooled in the juts of smooth, thin bone, tasting the landscape of him as America thrust helplessly against the thigh pressed firmly up between his legs.

"Don't tease, don't fucking tease," he groaned. "If we're so pressed for t-time... then get on... get on with it!"

"Ah, I do enjoy it when you're like this," England replied, laughing as he pulled back, his knee sliding down the inside of America's thigh as it dropped. He smiled, the expression somewhat fond, and ran his palm over America's cheek, thumb arching beneath his right eye. "Open your legs up, then, and we'll get you sorted."

He was all hands then, sliding over America, under him, in him, wrist flush against the underside of his cock; his other hand coming up again, plucking loose the remaining buttons on the shirt and laying it open, damp, against America's heaving chest.

The chain tarnished, old but strong, the wooden cross – hand-carved a very long time ago – still hung about America's neck, clinging comfortably to his sweaty chest halfway down his breastbone.

England changed the angle of his hand and his fingers went deeper and America made a noise that wasn't remotely stifled, his back banging against the closet door and making it rattle.

He cursed as England closed his hand around the cross.

"M-more... fuck, more, deeper...!" He twisted and his elbow slammed against the door again as he moaned. "Oh God..."

"Invoking God on only my fingers." England kissed the cross and then America's throat, making him throw his head back against the door with another loud thud. "Listen to you, my boy, getting all undone already."

"Ah... arrogant fucker... oh—!"

"That's rude, coming from you," England laughed, slipping his fingers out again. "We've already done that joke, haven't we? The you-being-damned-full-of-yourself one?" He tugged the chain, older than America, against the back of his neck. "Well, let's not dawdle. Put your hands on my waist – I can't hold you up, you know."

"That's 'cause... you're... you're too small."

"More like you're much too heavy."

America opened his eyes behind his fogged glasses and grinned sloppily.

"T-that again?" he panted.

"And again," England replied politely, taking hold of America's hips and angling him forwards, "and again, until you lay off the burgers."

"Not h-happening, Scrooge."

"A literature reference entirely inappropriate to both the situation and my current behaviour, but I'll take it." England pushed inside him quickly, sharply, completing their union in one single practiced motion. "There now. Don't resist, Alfred – relax."

"I know, I know, Jesus...!" America huffed irritably, bracing his back against the door properly as he struggled to settle around the stretch. "I'm... I'm good. Go already."

"Naïve little fool," England replied gently as he started to fuck him, slamming him back against the closet door with every thrust. His shorter height actually made this angle very easy for him; he could penetrate deeply and strike America's prostate with every stroke.

If he wanted to.

It was loud and it was obvious. America never made any effort to be quiet no matter where they were, almost as though he was doing it on purpose, shrieking and shouting at the top of his voice like it was all a game to see who'd come banging on the door first to tell them to keep it the hell down. He did so love being the centre of attention, after all, if not yelling about how he was going to save the world with jetpacks then instead yelling about what a damn good time he was having with England in a closet down the hallway from the meeting room. Incidentally, England wasn't crashing him against the unlocked door anywhere near as hard as America was still managing to bang against it, driving his own hips back with England's, yielding to it completely and yet not, something else, something else—

"Fuck... Arthur...!" His throat jerked as he swallowed and his glasses slipped and England held the cross tighter, wood smooth and sticky against his palm. "Ah, Christ... it's good, it's amazing... ah..."

"Amazing?" England whispered in his ear, smile mimicking the shape of it.

America nodded. He was laughing, laughing and breathless with his hands welded to England's waist, fingers twisted in his shirt, laughing so hard and so breathless that he was crying.

"That's my boy," England went on softly, kissing him on the cheek and licking away some of the salt. His hand went to the small of America's back and pushed down on him, forcing more of an arch as his hips suddenly sank lower. America screamed – nothing more than that, no coherent words, and fuck if he wasn't doing it on purpose.

He laughed then, pulling England closer, hands all over him, going up under his shirt and over his spine and shoulder-blades as the rhythm heightened, faster and closer and louder.

"Ah—oh, God, England... Arthur, Arthur—! Fuck, fuck, yes, there, there...! Yeah, harder, yesyesyes—!"

And then, breathlessly, quieter and against England's mouth—

"Daddy, is... is it good?" He almost sounded shy.

"Don't... don't fucking... call me that...!"

"Ha? It's just... just a pet name, babe—"

"E-even so, you're getting much too—too old for it... A-and anyway, calling me "Daddy" one minute and... and "babe" the next—"

America laughed again, feeling that the wooden cross about his neck was still tight in England's fist, and caught up his mouth in a deep, brilliant kiss—

There was a sudden pounding on the door and they froze.

"You two!" Germany bellowed, sounding very much like he had run out of patience. "We thought it best to restart the meeting in your absence but we can hear you in the conference room!" Scratch that – Germany sounded absolutely furious. "If you cannot bring yourselves to take this opportunity to discuss world affairs seriously, then at least have the decency to take your preferred occupation elsewhere!"

"Or at least gag your boytoy before you fuck him senseless in a closet, Vereinigtes Königreich!" Prussia crowed. "Mein gott, someone needs to gag that blonde moron – who better than his sugar-daddy?"

There was a muttering of German beyond the door and England felt America snickering quietly against him.

"Well, I can't help it if you're all blonde!" Prussia sang, his voice becoming more distant as he presumably strutted off again, satisfied with his input.

Germany, who had remained, seemed to realise he wasn't going to get a verbal answer from them and banged the door one more time threateningly.

"If I hear one more sound out of either of you, I'll break down the door and drag you out," he growled, and he audibly stomped away muttering something about "that damned Special Relationship, think it gives you the right...".

"And you weren't even making any noise," America pointed out, grinding down against England with a much quieter sigh.

"You make more than enough noise for the both of us," England countered. Their rhythm was calm now, paced and even. "Still, I am glad that you've decided to not test Germany's patience."

"Well, he did sound pretty pissed." America pushed up his glasses with the curve of his wrist. "Ha, bet he's just jealous. Bet listening to us makes him all hot under the collar every time he looks sideways at Italy, right?"

"Don't make assumptions, Alfred."

"That's not an assumption – it's the worst-kept secret ever."

"Only because Italy has an even louder voice than you do."

"And because Germany is as awful at denying it as you are. Besides, people make assumptions about us all the time."

"The fact that you scream the place down means it's not an assumption, you silly boy."

(Although England did often wish he had more of a right to make a rude snap-back at whoever had the gall to nudge him and make some kind of crack about Big Macs or Happy Meals – America grinning proudly at his side always made it look so hypocritical.)

"Love you," America whispered. He took England's elbows and pulled him close, kissing his forehead. "Love you, Daddy. Like hell. More than anything."

"I don't like it when you call me that," England said softly, pressing America to his shoulder, one hand stroking the nape of his neck, the other around the cross, thumb relearning the clever cuts and carvings he had made centuries ago.

America's fingers – longer, broader, bigger – found England's pulse, thrumming pale and steady like a new-birthed butterfly beneath his skin.

"Liar," he said, and he smiled.

It wasn't altogether that late – for England had seen the fatigue in America's expression and body-language and consequently made their excuses, leaving the party somewhat early – but the winter nights were dark and even the twitching back of the carriage curtain every now and then offered no indication as to where they were, every stretch of lonely, pitch-black country road looking the same. A silver skin of frost coated every brittle branch and every dip and mound in the uneven earthen road, the moon like a circle of ice in the clear cold sky.

America was asleep, curled against England's side with his head on his chest, making a pillow of the layers of lacy frills on England's cravat. England had already draped his heavy travelling cloak over the child to keep off the chill of the carriage – they were never warm, these wheeled wooden boxes...

America slept the whole way home, not disturbed by the bumps and swerves of the cab on the hard road, and only woke – partially – when England lifted him out, still wrapped in the cloak, and carried him to the house. The night air rinsed him of his drowsiness, for he was squirming restlessly in England's arms by the time they were in the entrance hall.

"Alfred, pray hold still lest I drop you," England muttered, still holding him with one arm as he took off his hat to hang it in the hall. "You are truly getting rather too big for me to carry you."

America giggled and threw his arms around England's neck, nuzzling him affectionately as if to insinuate that England wouldn't dream of dropping him. He was getting too big, though. He was chest-level with England now, at least when he stood up straight, and he was a lot heavier than he had once been. Despite his customary wriggling-about, however, he did like to be picked up and held and cuddled, almost obsessed with acquiring England's attention, clambering into his arms or lap or bed when he felt that he wasn't getting enough of it.

Still, England supposed that he was to blame for that. He had bred it in America, after all. If he lavished America with attention, then it was only natural that the child would come to expect the spotlight as the norm. He could only hope that it was a demanding habit that the boy would eventually grow out of – if not, then he could not be angry. He was to blame.

(Yes, he had only himself to blame for this.)

America clung more tightly as they ascended the staircase and passed his own room; he muttered something about monsters but they were all contrived excuses by now, these monsters and ghosts and ghouls of his, maybe the nightmares were real but the monsters weren't, they were never more than anything but passwords to get into England's bed.

"But are you not tired, Alfred?" England pressed. "You slept well enough on the way home. Why, we even left the festivities early so that you might sleep."

"Tired, but not too tired," America insisted. He pushed up in England's arms to kiss him on the cheek. "Truly not too tired, Daddy."

(Not too tired? If you insist, then.)

America was beginning to become manipulative. England saw it a mile off – probably because he was manipulative himself and therefore most likely the source of America's learning – and still wasn't entirely sure if he found it endearing or worrying. There was not so much innocence in those huge blue eyes anymore, nor so much within the soft curve of his childish smile. He was intelligent for his age; oh, naïve, certainly – he was the equivalent of perhaps a twelve year old – but clever, curious, confident.

Of course, America could not manipulate him. Ah, but it was enjoyable to let him think that he was able to, at least – that England was bending to his will and not the other way around when he supposedly got his own way.

(And didn't it deplete the guilt? It was alright it if it was what America wanted; if America didn't cry.)

He laid the boy down on the bedsheets of the four-poster, his small form still half-wrapped in the travelling cloak, the voluminous material fanning beneath him like the broad wings of a bat.

America lay on his back, wriggled to get more comfortable – the plain white sheets creasing with his movement – and turned his head to watch England, his cheek flat on the mattress. He smiled.

He had a beautiful smile. Even if it grew wicked at times – and it did – it still rivalled the gentle breathless breezes and cool easy violets and high open graces of the prairies and valleys and lakes of his land.

His smile and those eyes of his, big and blue and as empty as the sky – empty but not truly empty, the sky only seemed that way because it was limitless and with space enough for dreams and flying machines. The glow of the candle that England had lit fell on him now, glossing the blue over, the glaze on his gaze making it look vacant when that wasn't true at all, the boy was watching England very intently indeed, waiting for an invitation of some sort.

It drove England mad. He didn't want America to change, to ever change – and yet he knew that he would. There was no way to bottle his boyhood, to arrest his adolescence. The child grew quickly – too quickly, much faster than any other nation England had ever seen, himself included, the pace almost freakish – and soon he wouldn't be a child anymore. America had an adept ability to take things from other nations and stitch them into himself – culture, language, technology. That was why he grew so fast. England was aware of it and had tried to keep America away from everyone but himself so that they wouldn't warp him already more than they already had. France, Spain, Portugal, Holland... Their influences weren't needed and most certainly weren't wanted.

All America needed in this world was England.

(And as for wanted—)

Unbuttoning his waistcoat very carefully, cravat loose like a stole about his shoulders, England sat down on the edge of the bed; the boy came to him immediately, almost like a magnet, and was in his lap before England could do much about it.

America was not afraid of him. His eyes were not empty, in fact – rather, they were filled with blind trust, with complete and utter adoration. Nothing England did ever made him flinch away; England had gently trained him not to, soothing him when he trembled, reassuring him when he was uncertain. He had never hurt him on purpose, never terrified him as he had terrified others, never raised his hand to him (even when he had debatably deserved it).

Surely, surely, it was much too kind, much too loving, to be abuse.

America's kisses were hardly masterful but they were firm and enthusiastic, his small hands on England's shoulders to give him an anchor as he tilted his head up. He was straddling England's thighs, his legs dangling, not tall enough for them to quite reach the floor yet.

Young. He was still so young. England did not love him purely for that fact, but it could not be denied that it was his youth that gave him that wide-eyed idealistic wonder, his youth that made him a blank slate, his youth that made him a perfect vessel to hold what England feared – with the way nations and empires rose and fell with the ease of the tide – he might be one day unable to keep for himself.

"I love you," England told him, wrapping his arms around him, holding him as tightly as he could without hurting him. "America. Alfred. Do you understand?"

America buried his face in the frothy layers of England's open cravat and nodded. He liked to play at this being-shy thing sometimes even though he was anything but.

"Pray put a stop to this game of yours, else I shall think that you do not love me in return." England shook him a little bit as he felt him giggling.

"Arthur is silly, then," America replied with conviction, his voice muffled into the cravat.

"I beg your pardon, Alfred?" England took hold of the boy's shoulders and pushed him back away from his chest.

If America sensed that England was actually beginning to become a little annoyed with his behaviour, he did not show it, smiling and reaching up to throw his arms around England's neck again.

"I love you too, Arthur!" he proclaimed happily. "Daddy, I love you more than anything! I want to stay with you forever!"

Of course. Of course you do. You are but a child and I am all that you have ever known. Your teacher, your brother, your best friend, your lover, your father, your entire world.

(Of course, he did not expect America to always feel that way. He knew that inevitably America would grow up and eventually not need him anymore. He hated it, he resented it, he dreaded it, but he knew it would happen. It was simply a question of when.)

America rocked contentedly in his arms for a while, lulling himself half-asleep, and England held him close, enjoying the embrace; but eventually he noticed that the action was creasing the nice clothes he'd put the boy in for the party and shifted him out of his lap, rising.

"You are wrinkling your clothing," he said, kneeling at the side of the bed and taking one of America's feet, unlacing his boot. "Come along now, you know you must not play about in such finery. We ought to get you ready for bed, oughtn't we?"

America nodded, probably not because he wanted to go to bed but because he hated being dressed nicely. He liked to play outside and bring all the dirt of the day into the house, so wearing old clothes, either his own or England's, was fine with him. He always whined and fussed when England grabbed him and made him look decent enough to present in public. He particularly hated the high fashion for boys his (physical) age at the moment – half-length trousers and long socks with braces and patent shoes and fussy frock-coats with tails and ruffled cravats and tight-laced waistcoats and starched collars. He was regaled in all of those right now, all silk and velvet and lace, various shades of dark and deep reds, the coat a brilliant crimson because he'd wanted one the same colour as England's military uniform (he had other colours too, entire matching outfits, but earlier England had held up blue in one hand and the red in the other and said "Baby, you must choose" and America had barely hesitated before pointing to the red – perhaps the lesser of two evils if he was not allowed to wear his mud-caked shirt).

America did not often sit still, bursting within energy all too regularly, but he sat now and allowed England to quickly and efficiently undress him, fidgeting with the buttons of the outsized shirt of England's own that he was put in instead as the cuffs slipped over his small hands. He kicked his legs restlessly over the edge of the bed, heels tapping the oak rhythmically, as England neatly folded the clothes and left the room go and put them away.

He was gone a while; America didn't like being by himself for extended periods of time, especially at night, and retreated to the head of the bed, huddling into the pillows and bringing his knees up to his chest. England left him by himself fairly often but he still hadn't gotten used to it. He still hated to see his retreating back.

("Too dependent, my boy," England chided him at times, but he always held him closer and tighter still whenever he did.)

America scrambled towards him eagerly upon his return, arms outstretched as he jumped off the bed.

"Daddy, Daddy!" He threw his arms around England's waist. "What kept you? I was scared by myself."

Scared, perhaps. But there was that manipulative glint in those beautiful blue eyes again. England sighed and disentangled him; there was something gleaming in one of his hands.

"Alfred, your imagination is altogether much too vivid." He picked the child up again and took him back to the bed. "Come now, enough of this tomfoolery."

"What's in your hand?" America queried, distracted already, clawing at England's fist. "What's in your hand, Arthur?"

"A present for you, darling, which you might have only if you are good."

"Ah!" America crossed his legs under himself the moment England put him back down on the bed, smiling sweetly. "I am good!" he insisted.

"And does a good boy bring a live frog into the kitchen, Alfred?"

"I wanted you to see it!" America was starting to whine. He couldn't hold his "good boy" position any longer and knelt up, pawing at England's shirt. "I am good, I am, I am!"

"Very well," England sighed; but he was smiling. "I suppose you have done your utmost to convince me."

America beamed and England opened his hand, the chain threaded across his fingers; the wooden cross tumbled from his fist and swung like a pendulum at his forearm. America watched it in fascination, his mouth slightly open but silent.

"For you, America," England said softly, taking the old chain – old, old but strong, one he'd had from the reign of Henry VIII or thereabouts – in both hands and unclasping it. He slipped it around America's thin neck and hooked it again; it was long on him, the cross sitting in the middle of his ribs. "I carved it for you."

It had taken him three nights. The wood was birch, not the easiest to work with, but he'd happened across a piece of such a nice colour that he'd brushed aside the difficulty he'd known he'd have with it. He'd opted for a plainer shape, that post-Gothic kind with widened triangular points, and the details were sparse but minute and meticulous, a flair of quasi-Celtic-Medieval flourish here and there to bring out the beauty of the wood beneath.

"You wear it well," England went on as both of America's small hands closed around the solid shape of it, fingers tracing over the smooth nicks and notches as though trying to memorise them.

America looked up at him and seemed on the verge of saying something, probably "Thankyou" or "I love you", but instead he hesitated and then—

"Will it keep away the ghosts?" he asked. "And the demons and the monsters?"

England laughed and gathered the boy into his arms.

"Of course, of course," he said; too carelessly, too easily, because that was what America wanted to hear.

(America underneath him and all around him, one hand still tightly clutching the cross as he writhed and squirmed and bit hard at his bottom lip, his other arm flung around England's neck. Those manipulative eyes of his were squeezed shut, tears blooming at them and streaking his flushed cheeks.

"Does it hurt, Alfred?" England kissed his forehead. "Shall I stop?"

America shook his head. He was crying, his chest hitching, but he was insistent.

"N-no... no!"

England smiled against the crook of his neck.

"Then tell me you love me."

America opened his eyes.

"Daddy," he said, his voice barely audible over the heaving of his breath, "Daddy, I... I love you.")

—

And later, much later, days and weeks and months later, America came to his bed one night, wide-eyed and trembling but climbing under the sheets with a comfortable, practiced ease.

"Another of your dreadful dreams?" England asked him gently, feeling the boy shifting around under the covers, settling between his legs. "Hm, Alfred?" He lifted the bedclothes to look at him – America met his gaze from beneath the cave of them, his head resting contentedly on England's stomach. "A monster, was it?"

"Not a monster," America informed him sleepily, closing his eyes and getting comfortable. "You."

Perhaps England should have known better than to believe anything and everything France told him merely for the sake of living a happier life, but for everything else he hated about the snail-sucking bastard, he had to admit that France wasn't really known for lying. He much preferred making people squirm with the truth.

America was babbling happily as he helped him indoors with a stack of boxes. England had been in Europe for three months and America was delighted to see him; of course he hadn't bothered to dress up for the occasion, his shirt muddy and one of his braces fraying at the buckle, but he couldn't stop grinning.

He had grown again. Only an inch or so, but by this point he was already towering over England with all the outgrown awkwardness of a teenager, with large hands and feet and his shirt riding up whenever he stretched. It was odd to see him so tall – he always forgot that he was smaller than him nowadays – and England narrowed his eyes at him briefly.

"You need new clothes, boy," he bit out, interrupting whatever America had been prattling on about.

Derailed, America blinked at him, then glanced down at himself.

"Wh...? Ah, these are fine, really," he said, smiling. "They suit my needs well enough—"

"You need new clothes," England sighed irritably, "again." He took one of the boxes back from America, carried it to the kitchen table and unclasped it, going through it until he emerged with a magazine. "Here, these are the current clothing trends in Europe – why not take a look through it until I can take you to have you fitted?"

He held it open to a double-page spread depicting the ruffled, shortened style of waistcoat fashionable amongst the European nations at present – England himself was wearing one given to him by Switzerland in return for six boxes of the new ammunition being used by the English army.

America looked at it blankly, tilted his head, and then squinted at it before taking a step towards England and the magazine.

"Whatever can the matter be, Alfred?" England asked him sharply. "Can you not see it?"

"Oh, I..." America blinked up at him, suddenly appearing startled. "No, no, I am quite alright, really I am."

England glared at him, unconvinced, as he put the magazine aside; he took hold of America's chin and pulled him closer.

"What is wrong with your eyes?" he pressed, his voice hard. "Is this a frequent occurrence?"

"Arthur, do not concern yourself," America replied, pulling his head free again. "Truly I am perfectly well."

England still wasn't convinced, but he was not given the chance to pursue it further as America took his arm and tugged at him.

"Come, come, I cooked!" he said excitedly. "I thought you would be tired when you arrived so I made dinner—"

"Yes, yes, alright," England snapped testily, pulling his arm back. "Do not swing on me like that, Alfred. You are not a child."

America looked hurt, but he obediently dropped his arm and nodded, leading the way to the kitchen in a far more subdued manner. England followed, satisfied in crushing him for now.

They ended up eating in silence. America tried to start several conversations, this one about his horse, this one about the model flying machine he was making, but England didn't offer much response and eventually America, disheartened, fell quiet.

After dinner England went out onto the back veranda to smoke one of the thin little cigars given to him by Austria on his departure from Europe; he enjoyed the hush, watching the sky sink a deeper shade of bejewelled purple minute by minute as the sun set behind the pine trees.

He had missed America; and he had been looking forward to seeing him, however much of a pain in the neck he could be of late as he began to form a mind of his own – but then France, the dirty non-liar, had had to go and ruin it all.

Ignorance was bliss – and truly England would have been happier not knowing. Now he couldn't look at America without imagining what France had done to him that night. He couldn't even bring himself to be nice to him. He was angry and he couldn't deny it. He had thought that America – sweet, cheerful, dependent America – had more loyalty than that.

The door creaked behind him, as did the wooden boards of the veranda, and England sighed inwardly. Here came America, as thoroughly and endearingly unsneaky as always. He turned to him, regarding him boredly, and America actually flinched.

"What can I do for you, boy?" he asked coldly.

"Um..." America glanced about sheepishly, twisting his fingers together nervously. "I was just... I mean, I was..." He took a deep breath, seemingly steeling himself. "Arthur—England, are you... angry with me?"

England almost laughed at him, but he managed to restrain himself as he turned away again.

"Whatever gives you that impression?" he asked airily.

"W-well..." America stepped closer to him. "You... you have hardly spoken two words to me, it seems that you refuse to make eye-contact with me, you have not even..."

"I have not even what?" England mocked. "What do you mean to say, Alfred? I have not even so much as kissed you?"

America flinched again and England knew he'd guessed correctly. He exhaled deeply, breathing out a cloud of smoke. How to breach the subject? Perhaps he should just be blunt and outright tell the boy that he wasn't interested in taking France's used goods.

"Arthur." America was starting to whine. "Please. I missed you."

England scowled. Now that was rich. He'd missed him but apparently France was a good enough substitute.

"Arthur," America insisted, trying to put his arms around him.

England violently batted him away.

"How dare you touch me!" he exploded. "You lying little harlot, do not think even for a moment that I can be fooled by your pathetic act! France has told me about the ease with which he enticed you into his arms – and it is true that France is hardly my friend, but rest assured that I have known him long to be able to tell when he is lying."

All of the colour visibly drained out of America's face. France, England concluded grimly, really hadn't been lying; America was looking at him in utter horror and dismay.

"I knew it," England said quietly. "I did not want to believe it, but I knew it to be true." He looked at America in disgust. "So do not come crying to me that I am treating you unfairly when I cannot leave you unattended without you obediently opening your legs for my nemesis." He gave a snort. "I expect that he had just come from doing much the same to Matthew."

"I was lonely," America sniffed. "You always leave me by myself in this big house and go away for months on end and I never know when you are going to return. Sometimes I go weeks without seeing another person, without using my voice—"

"America," England said in a warning voice.

"No, no, it just isn't fair!" America wailed. "I hate being by myself and you always leave me! When France came over to see me I had been not in the presence of another for almost three weeks!"

"And it would have been too much to simply enjoy his company in a manner which did not involve you shedding your clothing?" England asked testily.

"It was he who began it," America shot back, "and anyway, you are being hypocritical, I am sure. Do you not have relations with many in Europe? You talk about Austria and Portugal all the time and I know you have slept with France yourself at least once because I heard you—"

"How dare you insinuate such—"

"I know what this is," America went on, clenching his fists. "It is that you insist upon stifling me! Heaven forbid that I might create a relationship between myself and anyone but you!"

England dropped his cigar to the wooden floor, stamped it out and walked past America back into the house without another word.

Ignorance truly was bliss. It hurt to know that America was growing up.

He had always dreaded it.

—

America was sitting in silence by the fire; in his lap rested a carefully-constructed model of wood, light and well-braced and with several layers of large, flat wings on either side. He was meticulously applying string across the body from the propellers at the tail, his blonde hair across his forehead as he leaned down very close to the thing to work on it.

England had his legs folded beneath him in the largest armchair, a cup of tea on the table at his side and a heavy book, given to him by Germany, open in front of him; he usually didn't curl up like this in front of America because it made him look smaller, more like the tiny island that America could knock flat if it so pleased him that he really was, but tonight he didn't really care, moodily retreating into himself.

He had addressed America only once – to suggest, somewhat sarcastically, that it appeared to him that America might in fact require spectacles. America had pointedly ignored him, moving the model away from his face even so.

What a nuisance. Of course America would need glasses – something else for him to whine and moan about as England dragged him down to the town to acquire them. America hated shopping trips and made them unpleasant with his stubbornness in refusing to choose colours, offer an opinion on style and stand still whilst being measured and pinned.

Still, perhaps glasses were something that taxes could be imposed upon.

Some time later, America got up, taking his model, and went to the other end of the large drawing room.

"Arthur," he said pointedly, his voice not without a little excitement, "watch this."

England took his time about lifting his head – he did so just in time to see the wooden... thing go careening across the room and slam into a bookshelf holding a leather-bound set of The Complete Works of Shakespeare from 1650. The model crumpled and fell to the floor, soon buried by the volumes all thudding down on top of it as they toppled like dominoes and slid off the shelf.

"My plane!" America wailed, darting to it and beginning to heave the books off.

"My books!" England sprang out of his chair and was upon America like a bat out of hell. "Never you mind your confounded model, boy! You pick those books up this instant and put them back exactly as they were!"

"Alright, alright..." America grudgingly shifted his attention to the books, stacking them neatly as he lifted them. "I apologise, I did not mean to knock them over..."

"I should most certainly hope not," England bit out. He bent to retrieve the battered model as Romeo and Juliet and Timon of Athens were removed from its crushed corpse, holding it gingerly by one wing. "Alfred, what is this?"

America blinked at it.

"Oh, I call it an airplane," he explained. "It is primitive at present, but it is a flying machine!" He frowned at it. "It got ruined, but I think I can repair it."

"Indeed," England said, and he tossed the plane into the fire.

"Arthur!" America promptly dropped King Lear and The Merchant of Venice as he watched his model go up in flames. "I worked on that for weeks!"

"Yes, well, the devil makes work for idle hands, does he not?" England replied absently, dusting his hands off and going back to his armchair. "Now put those books back and then get yourself to bed."

America simply stared at him, apparently speechless – which made a change.

"Alfred, do not make me repeat myself," England sighed, settling back into his chair. "Please just go to bed – I am quite weary of you today." He took his book back into his lap – he was notably sitting properly now, his back straight so that he was at his full height. "Oh," he added, "and I mean your bed, of course. Do not come to mine."

America still just stood there; England glanced up at him to check that he was not about to throw one of the Bard's works into the fire in revenge for his silly model and scowled when he saw him unmoving.

"America!" he snapped, losing his temper. "Do I have to take my belt to you, boy?" He slammed his book shut decisively and rose again. "For God's sake, leave the books, I shall do it myself." He waved his hand dismissively at America. "Good God, just get out of my sight."

Still America didn't move a muscle, as though debating standing his ground – he was, after all, a lot bigger than England and could probably easily overpower him physically if he tried.

But, after a moment of watching England angrily snatch up the books himself, he fled; England heard the uneven rhythm of him taking the stairs two at a time and then the slam of his bedroom door.

Sulky teenaged brat – England had been out on the high seas robbing Spain when he was his (physical) age...

He looked at the fire and saw the last of America's flying machine crumble to ash beneath the flames; ah, yes, he knew the feeling.

All of his hard work, falling apart before his very eyes.

—

England winched open the door to America's bedroom, holding up his candle as he leaned into the room; America was in bed, his own candle out, his back to the door.

Asleep.

England sighed inwardly. Good. He didn't want to deal with him anymore tonight—

The sheets rustled, there was sudden movement, and then America was sitting up, turning towards England and meeting his gaze. There was a very strange expression on his face – sad, sulky, but still somehow sort of hopeful – and his blue eyes were oddly piercing in the fickle flicker of the candlelight.

He was shirtless and the cross that England had made for him years ago was visible around his neck. He didn't say anything, just gazed at England pathetically, striking him speechless too.

Not too tired, Daddy.

England shifted his weight onto one leg distractedly as he composed himself.

"We shall go into the town on the morrow," he said stiffly. "Breakfast will be at seven. Please dress yourself as respectably as you are able, what with your clothes as they are. We shall attend to your wardrobe needs and also do what we can about acquiring you a pair of spectacles so that you might see things a little more clearly. Goodnight, Alfred."

He didn't wait for a response, merely giving a curt nod and pulling the door again. He went to his own room down the hall, putting the candle down at the bedside to light his way as he prepared for bed; allowing what was left of it to merely burn itself out, growing dimmer and dimmer, as he nestled beneath the sheets of this bed for the first time in three months and tried to forget about America.

Difficult, when he could not help but recall that America usually slept in this bed with him.

He could not come to the conclusion of how much later it was when the door opened, but here came America, unsneaky as always; by the dimming candlelight, pretending to be asleep, England watched him scamper to the bed and pause at the end of it, uncertain, before clambering aboard. He was under the covers before England could do much about it, settling with a sense of triumph about him at England's back. England couldn't be bothered to turn over and chase him out and so closed his eyes again, thinking it would be easier to just let him stay. He could get angry in the morning when he "found" America in his bed.

Of course, America had to ruin it. He wasn't in the bed two minutes before he was daring to cuddle close and try to put his arms around England from behind.

"Alfred, get out," England snapped, not opening his eyes.

America snatched his hands back as though England had burned him – but he notably didn't move much further than that.

"I mean it," England went on coldly when he felt no response. "If I wanted you in my bed, would I not have extended an invitation?"

"I might have known that you were only pretending to be asleep," America finally muttered.

"Alfred, out."

"Oh, Arthur," America wailed suddenly, throwing his full weight across England, "please do not remain angry at me! I am so very sorry, really I am! Please, please forgive me – I cannot bear for you to be so hateful towards me!"

"That is unfortunate, for I am highly displeased with your behaviour. You surely cannot expect me to shed hurt as deep as this so quickly." England finally turned over beneath him, observing America's flushed face and damp eyes; his cross was swinging like a pendulum. "My sweet America betrays me – of course I am sorely injured by this. Do not be so unkind as to beg me for my forgiveness."

"But I am sorry," America insisted. "Please, Arthur – I cannot stand this a moment longer! I will never betray you again – I will never hurt you, I swear upon my life." He paused; and then, in a rather small, pitiful voice, added, "Daddy... I love you."

"Alfred." England looked away. "You do yourself no justice. Please, away. We shall discuss it on the morrow, but for now, kindly leave me be. I do not wish to share my bed with you tonight."

There was a long, tense moment of silence. England expected to feel the shift of the mattress and the lifting of America's weight as he meekly got off and slipped away; instead, America sat up, but moved no further.

"No," he said.

"I beg your pardon?" England asked dangerously, meeting his gaze again.

America's eyes narrowed.

"I said no," he replied. "I shall not away, I shall not move. I am not a child and I do not, therefore, have to follow your orders."

"How dare you disobey me—" England began furiously, reaching up to shove at America; he cut himself off as both of his wrists were caught easily in America's large hands.

"I am not a child," America said again, his emphasis almost desperate. "I do not want our relationship to be a case of you ordering me around and I either doing as I am told or disobeying you; it is obvious to me that we do not love each other the same way and I wish that that was not so. Arthur, I want us to be equal."

"There can be no equality when one half of any given couple cannot be trusted," England spat at him. "How fine it is for you to preach at me for being unfair when you have hurt me so—"

"You do not understand," America interrupted. "You are correct in surmising that the excuse that to have allowed France to have his way with me purely because I was lonely is a poor one – I did not explain myself properly. Perhaps that might be been why I first reacted to his advances, but hear this: He did not make me feel like a child, nor that I was inferior. I felt equal to him – I have never felt that with you. With you, Arthur, I am always aware that you are older, that you are cleverer, that you are more experienced, that you are stronger. When I was younger it did not bother me because I was happy indeed to worship you, but now I want you to see that I am not so young anymore. I want you to love me as I love you. I want you to worship me, too."

"How foolish you are, boy," England replied softly. "And how arrogant."

America merely shrugged.

"Perhaps," he agreed calmly. "But I cannot help my desires any more than you can."

England had no response to that. Instead he tested America's grip on his wrists, finding that they were still held securely. He let his head flop back to the pillow with a breathy laugh.

"What now, then?" he asked. "Shall we sit here all night or are you going to rape me, Alfred?"

America paled a shade, but he shook his head firmly.

"I am not going to rape you," he said. "How would that be fair when you have never forced me?"

England laughed again.

"Perhaps not," he sighed. "Perhaps never forced or raped as you imagine the connotations – but adults are persuasive, are we not?" He grinned. "And so, if you are an adult, you will persuade me, surely."

"That—I mean to say—"

"I doubt that you can. I treat you like a child because you are one. What do you know of anything in this vein aside from what I have taught?" England closed his jade eyes again tiredly. "And why should you wish to be like us anyhow? We are awful creatures – liars, war-mongerers, beasts. Do not wish your youth away by insisting that you are an adult, for we will tear you apart soon enough when you are of age as we do to each other."

There was a long moment of silence.

"Is that why you wanted me?" America asked quietly. "All those years ago, you and France fought over me. I admit I have often wondered why you were so desperate for me – why you wanted to devote yourself to a child when you were young yourself."

"Yes. That is why I wanted you – and why I love you. You have not grown into what we are."

"But I have grown," America said, apparently not about to be bought out by sentimental words. "Arthur, am I nothing but a colony – an escape from Europe for you?" He tightened his grip on England's wrists. "My God, do not love me for my youth, because I am unlike Spain and France! Love me for me no matter my age, no matter my height, no matter what I can offer you. Are you so shallow that you will love me no longer when I start in upon my face with a razor each morning?"

"America—"

"No, I must have an answer! You call me a child still but you know that that is not so – you know it and do not wish to believe it and now you hate me because I am not as I once was. Would you rather I stayed a child for all eternity? Would you love me undyingly then, Arthur?"

"Alfred, I do—" England cut himself off, the realisation of what he was saying – of that America had managed to do – dawning on him. "You manipulative little wretch!" he seethed, struggling again against America's grasp. "I am the one gravely hurt by your behaviour and yet you have the gall to entice me to pity you as though I were the one in the wrong!"

"Is it any wonder that I shall seek elsewhere if this is how you treat me?" America exploded frustratedly. "I did not feel like a mere colony in his arms – he did not need to assure himself that he was superior to me with each of his actions. He treated me as if I were his lover, like any lover, woman or man, age of no consequence. I want you to treat me as he did that night."

"He does not love you, Alfred – he merely used you."

"And is that not what you do?" America pressed. "What should it matter when he made me feel as I did? You refuse me now out of stubbornness, because my betrayal has injured your pride more than your feelings, but in three nights I have no doubt that I shall be invited to your bed again, if it even takes that long."

England smirked at him.

"If you are so confident of that," he said lightly, "then why not simply wait out the three nights?"

"'Because I tire of this," America said. He hesitated, then took a deep breath. "Arthur, let me make love to you."

England blinked at him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Let me make love to you," America repeated. "I will not rape you, nor persuade you. Perhaps I am not yet adult enough to do either. But I love you and I will do my best to make you understand that, if you will allow me."

"I will do no such thing!" England snapped. "Now see here, young man—"

"Are you afraid?" America asked, pushing his wrists to the mattress.

"Of course I am not afraid, I merely cannot allow such a preposterous—"

"Then allow me to try."

"Do not be so ridiculous, as if you would any idea as to what—"

"Let me try."

England was silent for a very long moment. At length he smirked again, settling better into the mattress.

"Very well," he said graciously. "Do what you will. I warn you that this will be nothing but you making a spectacle of yourself, you silly boy. You are not ready."

America merely gave a nod and bent, leaning forward to kiss England on the mouth. England contemplated pulling away to be spiteful but he stopped moving altogether as he felt the cold wood of the cross and the chill coil of the chain settle against his own chest through his nightshirt as America pressed down close to him.

He remembered sitting by candlelight for three nights, bent low over it with a knife. His spine had ached and his fingers had bled and his eyes had been sore but he'd smiled as he'd held it in his hand, finished, on the final night and admired it. He had, by his own words and behaviour, been mindful of steering America towards God, but the carving had not been made to be held in prayer; leave the Catholics, France and Spain and Italy and Portugal, with blind fingers on their rosaries, for that had not been his design for America. The cross had not been meant as an article of prayer, but merely a gift – a sign of goodwill, meant to protect.

America always wore it.

America at last lowered his hands from England's wrists, guiding them sightlessly to his waist; still kissing him, he plucked at his nightshirt, coaxed his legs open, and then England felt the warm bulge of America's crotch press against his own—

He pushed America off, holding him at arm's length.

"I cannot," he said breathlessly. "I cannot allow this."

America looked at him in exasperation.

"Arthur—"

"I do not expect you to understand."

"Oh, I assure you that I understand," America said coldly.

"No, you do not." England rubbed at America's shoulders. "Listen, I shall forgive you; and I love you, Alfred, never doubt that – but pursue this no further, I beg of you."

America scowled at him.

"You are afraid."

"Yes, I am afraid," England agreed distractedly.

He wrapped his arms around America and pulled him down close again, embracing him and putting a hand to the back of his head to stroke his hair. America yielded to him, silent for a long moment.

"Then you make love to me," he mumbled finally into England's shoulder.

"No, not tonight, my boy," England replied gently. "This is enough. Hush now."

America squirmed unhappily for a moment but then fell still, apparently deciding not to argue any further; soon England felt his breathing slow and even out. It never took him long to fall asleep. He curled into England's embrace and slept against him contentedly, clutching at him as he had done when he was a little boy even though he was taller than England now, much taller, grown out of all his clothes but not his cross.

England held him close because he was afraid.

It was he who was not ready to have America make love to him.

"This is what we have wrought."

England ought to have known better than to go off by himself to survey the battlefield; at the sound of America's voice, he whipped around – but his musket was propped up against a tree over three feet away.

America's musket was pointed right at him, bayonet gleaming in the orange light of the dusk. In this glow America's blue coat looked purple – England's own looked a much deeper crimson than it really was, as demanding as an open wound.

"Yes, it is," England agreed, turning his back on the battlefield as he faced America fully. He looked pointedly at the musket. "Have you come to kill me?"

"I should." America raised the gun a little. "It would put an end to all of this, would it not?"

"All of this?" England repeated mockingly. "You mean 'war', of course?" He laughed. "A pity that you are not man enough to call it by its true name."

America's eyes darkened.

"You are in no position to speak to me like that, Arthur," he said warningly.

"Oh, I am merely trying to understand," England replied airily. "It is all too easy to declare war, of course – all it takes is a few words. Of that I know you are aware, since those few words falling from your lips are why we are here, after all." He shook his head. "This is what we have wrought? Of course that is true –but I feel that you project the blame fairly because of guilt on your own part."

"I did not want it to be like this," America said stiffly. "If only you had—"

"Ah, of course, and now it is solely my fault," England cut in sweepingly; he gestured behind him to the fading field littered with corpses dressed in blue and red. "Men, young men, good men – sons, brothers, fathers, all sent out to die by my will alone."

America's aim faltered but he gripped more tightly at the musket.

"Stop it," he said. "Stop it, Arthur."

"If you are man enough to command an army then you are most certainly man enough to accept responsibility for your losses. Accept that it is because of you that a child will never be tucked in at night by his father again – that instead of reading his daughter a Bible passage by the fire, a nameless man in a blue coat lies face-down in the mud with his cold hand still around his musket—"

"Stop it!" America threw down his own gun.

"What did you think this was?" England challenged him. "Of course your armies are expendable, of course you will lose men, you naïve little—"

America breached the gap between them in less than three paces and slammed England against the tree in another two.

"Is this what you meant back then?" he asked savagely. "Is this what you did not want me to grow into?"

England looked at him – muddy, bloody, wearing an army uniform of his own design, blue instead of the red he had once chosen over it. He wasn't wearing his glasses even though he needed them. He had always been stubborn about them, apparently neglecting them altogether once out of England's influence.

"Yes," England replied. "This is exactly what I dreaded. Look at you – you are just like me."

America shot him a sudden sickly smile.

"Of course I am, Daddy," he said softly.

(Was it rape if he more or less let America do it?

America was bigger than him. It had never been more obvious – his wrists were held with one hand as America unfastened and undressed both of their lower halves with his free one. England didn't struggle, almost fascinated into obedience. He didn't want it, not here, not like this, but he was ready for it, finally; he could not have stood to have America – a mere teenager – make love to him in the comfort of their bed, but in the waning light of the day against a tree and overlooking a battlefield...

...He was ready to let him try.)

America had pulled off both of their coats before he had begun; during it, both in buff waistcoats and white shirts, they had not looked as though they were on opposing sides. England, his wrists released, had clung around America's back, his face pressed to his chest and feeling the thick blunt shape of the cross against his cheek. He had heard America pant a string of things in time with his clumsy thrusts, "England" and "Arthur" and "Daddy".

England crumpled when America pulled back from him, sliding down the tree and knocking his own musket over as he watched America buckle himself up again – he wasn't smiling, tucking his shirt in distractedly. England didn't say anything.

America bent and picked up both coats, holding up red in one hand and blue in the other as he rose again.

"Baby, you must choose," he said, his voice and gaze both rather flat.

England blinked at him. Did he truly mean for him to choose...?

No. America waited a moment longer, and then came to a decision himself; he threw the blue coat at England and put the red coat on, leaving it open. England let the blue coat lie crumpled across his lap as he watched America in bewilderment – the boy was fumbling with his shirt collar, hooking out the chain of his cross.

Upon grasping it, he yanked the whole thing off over his head; and then, bending again, he slipped it around England's neck instead, pausing long enough to kiss him on the forehead before springing up and turning away. His pace was quick as he retreated without another word, picking up his musket as he left, red staining his back as England's dead sons and brothers and fathers stained the field on which they had fallen.

When he was alone, England closed his hand around the wooden cross and closed his lips around the Pater Noster.

("Daddy, I love you. Do not die on that field in red.")

'Pater Noster' is, of course, the Latin name/version of 'Our Father'. On that note, 'E Nomine Patris' means 'In the name of the Father'. As far as the religious aspect in this fic goes, I'm bending canon as it is and I know there was that bit in an episode where England was chased around by the Pope for like a whole half of the five minutes because he wouldn't cut his hair (or something like that, I forget...), but otherwise the series tends to skirt around the religious implications of country-to-country interactions. I thought it might be interesting to bring that in since a lot of the European countries – particularly Spain and Italy – are fiercely Catholic while, conversely, Britain (or England and Wales, at least) has been Protestant since the end of the reign of Mary I. I suppose arguably England's characterisation perhaps doesn't lend itself as well to an interpretation of religious faith as, for example, North Italy's does (I can see Feliciano believing in God, anyway) – but he does have a whole church name after him (Church of England FTW) and it's the Protestant faith of the English settlers as opposed to the Catholic beliefs of the French and Spanish ones which was adopted by the USA.

Again, I'm not sure if America really strikes me as the religious type, but... well, maybe? God Bless America! XD

Why So Blonde, Hetalia? In reference to Germany's reprimand of Prussia insinuating that America is dumb because he happens to be blonde. Anyone not colour-blind will have observed by this point that America is nowhere near the only blonde in the series, joined by England, Canada, France, Germany (hence why he was pissed), Russia, Sweden, Finland, Denmark, Norway, Sealand, Latvia, Poland, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Belgium, Holy Roman Empire and Germania. Some are less blonde than others (like Latvia, Russia, Denmark and Norway), but that's still eighteen blondes (nineteen if you want to count Belarus' altered anime hair-colour).

SO, EnglandxLoli!America (or, well, Shota!America). Yeah, I went there. Actually it was meant be – at least partially – symbolic of the way Britain took advantage of the American colonies via taxes and the like, which America just took for a while because Britain was like "Well, we own you, and this is how it works" and America was like "Um... okay" – until at last America was both all like "Hey, waaaaait a minute..." and big and strong enough to give Britain a taste of its own F-in-the-A medicine. So, hey, maybe it's somewhat canon – even if the shota-con front in Hetalia is in fact manned by Spain and not England. That's why Romano is so pissed off all the time – you would be too if you'd had Spain perving on you your entire childhood only to find his ungodly lust for you didn't peter out once you weren't eleven anymore and he still wants into your pants really really badly.

On that note: It was alright it if it was what America wanted/Surely, surely, it was much too kind, much too loving, to be abuse. No, England. No, it's not. This way of looking at it is relative to the fic itself – in part to reflect the way England is in fact manipulating America (and not the other way around, as America thinks he's doing with his super-sparkly-shota-smexiness or whatever) to ease his own guilt and in part to reflect the way England's abuse of America has severely fucked him up (i.e. made him think that an adult having sex with his twelve-year-old charge is normal – IDK, maybe England has a stack of Kuroshitsuji doujinshis that America found...). And, in fact, the damage is long-lasting because America never really learns that what England did to him when he was a child was wrong – I suppose the behaviour America displays in this fic might actually be considered some form of Stockholm Syndrome (oh, Sweden, let Finland go already...) or something since he never manages to truly break away from England and in the end they're back in pretty much exactly the same relationship pattern (just 'Now With Disrupt UN Meeting Function!').

Honestly I wrestled with myself over whether or not to put the shota in there – all the moral/paedophilia/daddy-kink stuff aside, it kind of makes it look like England therefore deserves everything else of a less-than-pleasant nature that happens to him in the fic, which, with regards to the actual historical United Kingdom/actual historical events involving it (such as the Blitz, which we're getting to), isn't necessarily true. Gah, Hetalia, why must you make everything so morally-complicated...? O.o

Well, in the end I did it. I felt like it was a better reason for all the daddy-complex-angst stuff I wanted to explore in this fic than simply teenaged!America sulkily nursing a hard-on for his oblivious paternal figure only to one day realise that said oblivious paternal figure is like four feet tall and therefore (in what might be considered "France Terminology") easily rapeable – I mean, that's been done to death in this fandom, really it has... So instead we end up with a fic in which America has been so badly screwed up he doesn't even realise there's anything wrong with him. =(

"Baby, you must choose" – A line borrowed from Rebecca West's The Return of the Soldier. That is all.

As before, mostly due to its ridiculous length, this fic is a two-shot, so look out for the second half within the next week! Thanks for reading this part and Happy 4th July! =)

RR xXx