and the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air

[colonial]

Characters: America, France, England, open
Setting: the cafeteria and the library
Format: action
Summary: America finally learns about the Fourth of July
Warnings: tiny colonial baby learning about that whole revolution thing

A; Cafeteria - CLOSED TO FRANCE
[It wasn't unusual for America to wander around the Tower on his own, at least a little bit. More than England knew about, really, but being in the cafeteria was hardly unusual for him. And they had good food again, so America was taking advantage of it. He'd stacked chocolate pancakes high enough they were a hazard to carry around, and he'd been unable to choose between chocolate or strawberry milk and had thus gone with both.

He's in a good mood today! What could go wrong?]


B; library - OPEN
[There were books scattered everywhere, some in piles, some open and abandoned, some left dangling off of chairs--it looked as if a small hurricane had taken place in the library, and given this was the Tower that wasn't impossible. But the real source of all the chaos is sitting on a book shelf he's rapidly clearing out. He's got a dictionary on his left and he's reading something else--but eventually he sighs and tosses it onto the ground.

This explains the state of the library.]

There's nothing here! It's not here at all!

C; England's room - CLOSED TO ENGLAND
[And, after tearing the library apart and finding absolutely nothing that would help as far as intricate details went, America had to return to England's room in the evening exhausted and unhappy. He knows England is sick--he was sick last year around this time, too--and he doesn't really want to bother him, especially with something France basically said was going to make him sad.

Instead he climbs into bed and tucks himself against England's side, trying not to look too downcast. He still looks really unhappy and frustrated, though, in spite of his best efforts.]

Comments

[keepscalm]

[No. He's not, really. He's from a present (past, now; it's been almost two years) with its own America. And America is from a present with its own England. This America was never his, and never will be. Nothing will stop England from caring for him, from loving this America as if they were from the same universe; maybe when they leave the Tower, this America won't grow to resent his England nearly as much as England's America resents him. Maybe he can improve the future for the both of them (as people, not nations, because England can't change anything for a whole nation) — he'll always care about America, no matter what he says or does.

At the end of the day, though, England and America — this America — will have to part. They were never meant to live together like this.

But that's all so complicated that England goes with a simpler answer. He's sure that America is confused and upset enough without England giving him further food for thought.] I'm sorry I never told you. [And he is, but some part of him wonders if he's more sorry for America's sake, or for his own.

However, he's entirely sincere with what he says next, even though his voice is weighted by the centuries he only shows in times of heavy reflection.] You have a very great future ahead of you. I promise.

[colonial]

[Once upon a time, America had chosen England over France, and it had been because England had started crying and America had wanted to know if he was okay--maybe he could fix it, and maybe he could make England feel better so he wouldn't have to cry. And from then on, America had tried to make England happy. He'd played with England and ate England's food and listened to England's stories and believed really hard in fairies and unicorns and all sorts of things he'd never ever seen because whenever he did, England would be happy. England didn't seem very happy when he talked about things that happened in Europe, or about France or Spain, or about anything that had to do with all of that work grown up countries had to do that he didn't really know too much about yet. If England was happy, America was, too, and he'd been fine with living like that.

He doesn't think he would have suddenly wanted to make England sad for no reason. Even if the future is so far away, he can't imagine it. England had said a little bit about reasons, about England's bosses that America had never met but had imagined as wise figures in robes and crowns beyond his own comprehension.

There's the sudden, bitter understanding that this sort of thing was something that, had he asked for detail, he would be told he was too young for. This is the first time he really understands it. Being a child means no one tells you anything--he knew that, but now he can feel it. He can grasp that in his hands and know that he will always be protected while he's small. He's too little to understand this, he's too little to help with things in the Tower, he's too little and the adults are going to protect him. Even the humans--even the humans here will protect him, even when they're eighteen or twenty or thirty and he's older than them, really, because nations grow so slowly, so slowly, and in a blink a human is ready to help while he still has to wait, and he's never been good at waiting, not ever, not at the docks and not here.

He wants to get bigger and he wants to help protect England like England protects him. But if he wants to get bigger he has to leave England. Humans do that. They're little children and they get bigger and they leave and have families with other little children. There are playmates he had who are adults now and he plays with their children. But to leave he has to make England sad, and that's not the same with humans. When a human child leaves they don't have to fight anyone or make their parents sad. They can visit their children and their grandchildren and be happy and no one has to look like England does now.

There's something like intense jealousy for that sort of life that sparks and dies with equal amounts of intense, burning violence. He's a colony, and he'll be a country, and even if--even if humans will have all sorts of things he won't have, neither can he hate his own people for it. He didn't ask to be a country and they didn't ask to be humans.

Maybe life is just really difficult, if you're born out of nothing and bound by something America doesn't think he'll ever understand to the lives of hundreds or thousands--or more, maybe, in the future.]

You're still trying to make me not be sad. ["You're protecting me from myself later on." America slides on his knees a little and climbs up onto England's lap before he stands up. It's as close as he can get, being so small, to looking England right in the eye.]

[keepscalm]

[It's a strange thing. For over a century, all he wanted was to for America to be happy. America's smile made him smile, and that was something he wasn't allowed — something he didn't allow himself — for a very long time. And yet, when America left him, suddenly that changed. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was hurt the boy that had had the audacity to worm his way into his heart and then rip it out. And he managed to, many times; it was satisfying, but only ever for a short moment. Only ever fleetingly before the guilt set in and reminded him that, damn it all, he couldn't just stop caring.

The result was predictable, but England didn't know how to stop. It had become a reflex, something so deeply and defensively ingrained in him that it was right distressing to attempt to do otherwise. He couldn't stop, because he couldn't let his America look into his heart again, not ever.

But at the same time, he would, without fail, try to make up for the worst of it when he realised that he had gone too far.

England watches absently as America climbs up onto his lap. He normally doesn't feel threatened by this America's gaze, but there's something in it now that makes it hard to meet his eyes. Something like understanding, something that doesn't feel right in the way America looks at him.

His own gaze falters for a brief moment.

"You're still trying to make me not be sad."

He never stopped trying to make America not be sad. He just started to cause some of the problems he was cleaning up, sometimes.]

Well, I don't much like it when you're sad.

[Even this America, who isn't rightfully his. America was still counting on him to be a big brother, someone he could look up to. And as soon as England had that again, all of his defences fell away. That was proof enough.

He's not sure if America will see it that way. He doesn't know any better about England's past, after all.

If it makes America happy, though, that's all right. Maybe he'll stay happier for longer this time, and it will be with England's assistance, rather than at his expense.]

[colonial]

[Hearing that is almost enough to make America try to force a smile. But sometimes that makes England even sadder, when England can tell he's forcing it, so instead he stands on tip-toe and hoists himself up a little with his hands on England's shoulder.]

I don't like it when you're sad either.

[He kisses England's forehead like England does to him sometimes. He doesn't like England being sad now, he didn't like it even before, and he's certain he'll never like it, not in a hundred years or five hundred or even a thousand.]