That Day, We Definitely Held Hands
Arthur didn’t really remember coming home. He might have still been on the battlefield, God knows. His brain had too little blood to work with to care. His surroundings were hazed and unimportant, his gaze cast down at the hands in his lap, unfocused. There were bright flecks of crimson somewhere around his hands, they kept him looking and somewhat fascinated by the red colour blending into the green of his uniform. The scarlet on his hands vaguely reminded him of the Revolutionary War. Before had he overcome it too, and stood the British nation proud and strong again, so he wasn’t scared. He noticed a shadow looming over him. He was okay with it. An image of Francis’ face flagged in front of his eyes, the man who changed his bandages and helped him out in the worst, albeit being his greatest rival and hating his guts... It made Arthur’s lips curve in an subtle amused smile.
“Hey England”
Maybe Francis wasn’t all that wrong, showing at least a little bit compassion. Calais-Dover, they had always been close to each other. Unlike the huge ocean on his other side, keeping that uncaring brat away, the twat, the git, the Alfred F. Jones. F stands for Fuck yeah, his army had won, maybe it wasn’t even an army, maybe, maybe... He found himself unable to follow the track of thoughts and returned to the outside world. His eyes were still seeing, surely open but image blurred and he wouldn’t even try to focus because it was hard enough to keep himself sitting. He bent over slightly to sit more comfortably. He caught a glimpse of a shadow, the one from before, now in front of him. Out of the soft, the image stirred with move of colourful spots and he felt his hands lift up and, even more fascinated, he watched and felt them shift and twist. Then they lay down and it felt somehow dissapointed.
“After all”
Ahh, the red he savoured. He liked it, it was so noticeable and he imagined the old revolutionary uniform clasped around his arms, red and white and blue and stripes and a single star and the rain and mud and wet hand across his face felt like a child not seeing and not seen and foolish and git but unable to shoot, to make his his again - no, for the first time and tears and useless and torn away from there, a hand lay on his shoulder. Wake up, the unicorn said and he didn’t dare to, it was all inside him after all... When he noticed that the colours were moving again, they were already in swift motion and carefully slid under his hands. It was important to focus at the hands. Slightly wet, sweaty, had the blood already dried up? and caressed his wrists, one of them naked and swollen, the other still hidden under a crimson cloth. The thumbs pushed slightly, and a jolt of pain ran through him, snapping him out of it and he looked up to the one’s face.
“I want freedom”
Arthur woke up in the neat way of waking. He simply opened his eyes and didn’t move any further.
He was feeling okay. That was, until he moved.
He’d woken up in a hospital. So much he concluded from the bulky bed, smell of antiseptics and white room. Turning his head made him come to senses which reported the rather uncomfortable state of his body. His whole England ached. London was a mess. It beated weakly though steadily in his chest but Arthur could feel the terrible condition his capital was in. So was Manchester. So was York. Harvard and Oxford were having the worst of all hangovers. Arthur was too scatterbrained to examine the full extension of his wounds.
He felt confused. He reached over to the button that called a nurse, pushed it and let his hand fall down again. Immediately he wondered why he had done that. He didn’t need a human coming in, pitying and worrying (about) the nation. All he needed was to lie down and concentrate at thinking. Connect all the parts of his body and understand why England was a burning, crushed mayhem crying for help.
Bloody hell, a nurse had come in. All the smiles, pretending there was nothing wrong with the injured nation. She spoke American accent, explaining Arthur’s ugly situation. He didn’t take it in. Even the simple summary was too complicated for his puzzled mind to comprehend.
His thoughts kept wandering. Various people would come and go but none of them could get Arthur’s attention. He felt kind of guilty, seeing their worried faces, even tears once (but he couldn’t remember who they came from, only the splendor of salt water and wanting to taste them), knowing he should respond. But sincerely he found it very hard. At first he tried to answer but he kept forgetting what he wanted to say halfway the sentence and fell quiet with an embarrassed blush. It was innapropriate to stutter as the gentleman he was. And bloody hell, he couldn’t even recall what his visitors had said minutes after they did.
It was the first time he did not trust himself to speak, and he grew rather irritated of it. Luckily, through persistent willpower he was able to extend his attention span bit by bit. He wouldn’t always focus at what was socially important (for example, he knew Francis had been there because he got strangely attracted to his colourful uniform and examined it thoroughly, yet he had no memories of what France talked about or whether he was flummoxed by his stare - Arthur had to apologise for that later) but at least his attention wouldn’t flick from one thing to another without a warning.
By the evening (he was surprised to see it was already dark) he was lying on his bed, hoping that the inattentiveness would pass after he got some sleep. He also hoped it would all be a dream and he’d wake up in the morning. In the meantime, he let his thoughts wander again to fall asleep quickly. Back then, it was a hell of a party, yes? Too bad the sea never turned to tea. And all it would take is a change of one single letter. Let us call the seas teas, shall we? That way English soldiers might not ever again die when their ships are crushed by those rebellious bastards’ cannons. And we would live, yes. We would take our teas again, claim them ours and most importantly, take the New World. Why in the world couldn’t it be mine? Why in the world did the sea not turn to tea? Why in the world can’t the world work in harmony under the British Empire? Why do they want freedom so badly even though it brings them war and...
In the morning, Arthur remembered. With gut wrenching horror, he remembered.
The invasion of God. Nobody knew what exactly invaded the Earth, so they called it Apokalypse. It all happened too quickly. He called an emergency meeting and the next thing he knew were bombs and blood and death... The United Kingdom once used to be one of the most powerful nations in the world. Now it was a powerless heap of scared men. A breath of cold, others than Russia could take this to their advantage. They had to work together more than ever, improve their relationships, help him stand up, forget about the past and move on...
If Arthur felt cold breeze before, now he was frozen.
He remembered something else.
It made sense now that his thoughts instantly stumbled upon the Revolutionary War after he set them free. No one would remind him of it so vividly but America himself. He must have paid him a visit the day before. And God oh God, he remembered that he’d told him.
He remembered shoving his bandaged wrists in front of America’s eyes and telling him that they were the same after the Revolutionary War.
Arthur sat up and shook his head in horror. Tears wouldn’t come. No, he didn’t do it, can’t be, can’t be true... He said that? What else had he said? What else had he given away, how much of his broken self had he shown? Oh God, he couldn’t have told America... No, he was far stronger than that... The guilt came slowly knotting his insides in painful ribbons. It squeezed his windpipe, cut his stomach, burnt his lungs, stabbed his livers, stretched his kidneys up to his jerking midriff until everything was too swollen to fit in his tormented body and wanted to come out so badly that he thought the small islands of the United Kingdom would never be large enough to contain the bloated guilt that blossomed from the bottom of his heart for he had just broken his one most sacred vow, that no one would never know what he had gone through and what he had...
Oh my God, who have betrayed us, he told him.
His inside came out through his oral cavity.
He told him!
The man arched his body with the most desperate moan the English have ever admitted to make. Tears started streaming out of his eyes as he sobbed and cried out loud, wishing for no one but the swelling to be leached from his England. Arthur wept. He had no excuse. But before his rightful punishment for what he had done, he wanted to let go. He wanted to die free, aware of his sins.
The nurses found him and wept with him outside. England rained bluntly.
The tears healed. Time passed and England calmed down, everything back in place, broken and stained, but clean.
Arthur lay tranquilly on his side. His breath was even as he enjoyed his body, the nation he loved and he would always be. The punishment was coming. But he could endure it with clean slate.
And God, thank you for this.
I’m wandering through an English city. I don’t know its name ‘cause most of the signs are broken apart and burnt, as the whole town is, but I don’t really care about the names. The whole England is this way, so why should I bother? Thankfully, the bodies are already gone. Probably the job of cannibals or something. But second thought, there is someone. He’s a nation (Don’t ask me how I know but we all do. It’s easy to tell human and nations apart.) and a rather dirty one. His used-to-be-green clothes hangs loosely from his slumped shoulders and he’s kneeling on the sidewalk. I run towards him, an uncomfortable feeling setting across my America. That blonde hair’s rather familiar. Plus England’s eyebrows can’t be mistaken. He’s in a mess. I bend over before him and examine what damage’s been done to him. His face looks torn. His eyes are only half-open and I can see he’s not right here. It’d look like he was contemplating if it weren’t for his battered form. “Hey England,” I say. But he gives no response. No, he buckles up a little. And remains still, never mind. I sit down face to face with him. There are small smears of blood in his face, probably his own. In his hair, too. His head must be wounded (Finally he admits it). His skull shows sharply under his skin, he looks like he’s lost all of England’s strenght. His uniform’s ragged at a few places. His bloodied hands are in his lap, only now I notice that bandages peep from under his cuffs. I think his arms got cut but his sleeves are unmarked... I take off my gloves and carefully slide his sleeves up. The dressing covers just his wrists and I feel a chill. It’s red with more or less fresh blood. I unwrap the bandages with both my hand simultaneously (I’m that good) and my left hand’s finished first.
What the hell...
I almost get sick. This is wrong. These deep slashes in the meat of his wrists, England wouldn’t do this to himself, would he? No, of course not. No. No way. He can’t have. There must be something else that made him bleed his strenght out like this. “England, who...” I look up at him but England sees only his swollen wrists, he almost seems to be marvelling them. I regard them too, and I all but repeat his actions. I take his wrists in my hands again and I can’t help but wonder, will more blood come out of the half-closed wounds if my thumbs push just a bit?
England jolts up, making me jolt up, and stares into my eyes. “I won’t allow it!” he shrieks and falls to his side. I catch him. Out of reflex, ‘cause my mind’s stunned. “E-England...” I shake his limp form and get scared of his helplessness. “England! Get a grip! You can’t die! You still owe me money -” (Not that there’s much money in his veins anymore... Even that eternal blush’s off his face.) I shudder in sudden fear. England can’t just dissapear from the maps! I-I’ll save him! I’ll be the hero for England! I won’t let him fade away, not while America’s here! I cradle him in my arms, get to my feet and run through the streets. I’ve - I’ve gotta find someone who’ll take care of him! Quick!
I don’t know where to go. I don’t know where to do. I can’t get any help and I can’t take care of the body in my arms on my own. I don’t know where I am, (suddenly knowing this place’s name’s all important). I can’t - I can’t!
I spot my car. I immediately lurch to it, that car’s the only steady point in this spinning world. I have no free arms to open the back door, so I have to push England against the metal with my shoulder. Steady, steady, take a breath, my hand’re shaking too much! That’s right. Calm down. Still making sure he doesn’t fall to the ground with my left hand around him, I open the door with my right, take England and lay him down on the back seats. Good thing my car’s spacey. I still hit my head. I drive for a long time. It gets dark and harder to check England in the rearview mirror every five seconds. We’ve gone through countless destroyed towns and still no signs of help. Actually -
Phew, that was close! I almost made us two very crashed nations. I saw a hospital sign and kinda lost control. But never mind, after turning back I know England’s fine and soon I stop in front of the building. I’m dizzy. I’ve gotta lean on the car first, before opening the back door and pulling England out. “Come on... almost there,” I tell him and carry him to the entrance. “Help! Man down!” I scream once inside. I’m instantly lost in the white coats and they take England out of my arms and I find myself sitting down, claiming I’m fine.
“As fine as hell,” a doctor murmurs, he shines with that shiny thing in my eyes so long that it hurts. I’m - what? I’m... dammit, I... I’m lost.
I wake up in a hospital bed. I kick the sheets away, jump to my feet and scream, “England!” Immediately nurses rush in and shout I should lie down. I put up a good fight but I don’t want to beat girls (plus they threaten to dope me) so I have no choice but to do as they want. “Where’s Eng--” ...Crap, what was England’s human name again? Daamn! “...the guy I brought here?” “Oh, you mean Mr. Kirkland.” Yeah, that was it. “I suppose I can tell you since you are the one who brought him here. He’s currently undertaking a surgery. No may I ask you who you are?” “Me? Why, I’m A-” I stop beaming at her as I realize that I too have to use my human name. “...Alfred. Alfred F. Jones.” (I really prefer America.) “Well then Mr. Jones, I’m delighted to tell you that you are doing just fine. We’re keeping you here for a few days however, to make sure you don’t collapse like that again.” Like these British people could see any harm in my America! I need proper care, not some wizardy wand wiggling and magic arts. I’ve gotta go home. But before that. “I have to see him!” I demand. “Well I’m afraid that isn’t possible. As I have said, Mr. Kirkland is at the operating theatre at the moment and I’m sure you realise that you can not-” “I don’t care! I’ve gotta see if he’s okay!” “The surgeons are ta-” “I’ve gotta go!” “You can’t sir! And if you insist on leaving, I’ll be forced to tranquilize you!” “...You wouldn’t do that. Lemme go.” The moment I shift from the bed, the doctor I’ve been talking to pulls out a painful looking injection. She puts it to my arm, ready to stab. I shiver at the sharp point inches away from my skin. Yuck. I have no choice. Again. “Okay, okay!” I shout angrily and fall back. The doctor seems contented.
At the next occasion, I flee. Luckily my clothes is in the room. I put Texas in my pocket and put on my favorite sunglasses. Now I look badass. I sneak out of the room and with my hero powers make it outside. It’s really dark. It takes me a while to obtain the harpoon from my car. I can’t help but hum a Bondy toon. I’m so cool, and I’m going to save England as the hero I am! I make my way up to the roof, then deep into the hospital corridors, closely avoiding detection a few times, until I stand in front of a dimly lit window of the operating room. Damn doctors mostly get in the way but the first time I see England... bile rises in the back of my throat. Cut up. Helpless. Fucking helpless. I can’t look any more. I hate to admit it. The one who saves England here is not me. Dammit.
I drive through the night, desperately trying to find my way back to the plane I first came with. If I can’t help him back in the hospital (cut up), I’ll find another way! I’ll mobilize all of my power to help him, I’ll tell my people to go to the Great Britain and build up the strong country he once used to be (days ago)! I won’t, won’t let him crumble and die! “Hang in there, England,” I mumble and don’t take my eyes off of the pitch black road.
The first time I hear from England is after days of hard work and no sleep. He seems to be doing good. He’s been asleep (the envy!) for a few days straight and he finally woke up today. Well I can’t waste any time so I immediately call my pilot and I’m off to England. I forget to take any work with me which is a good excuse to sleep for the whole flight. When I wake up, my pilot’s telling me we’re beginning to descend. I look out of the window. Oh, England’s nice. Woods and fields, and black scars that used to be towns and villages. Really nice. Yeah. Good thing the hero decided to help you, tea-lover! It’s not like you’re the only one I help. There are countries hit just like you and I help them too! So you better be grateful that I’m coming to you and no-one else!
England... We land on a field near the hospital. Now I know it’s one of the few that haven’t been destroyed and only thanks to my hero powers was I able to find it. The nurses greet me fondly. I’m really proud of them. They’re my nurses, they came here to help England recover (though the real care’s got to be done by the British docs, I suppose only magic helps England). They take me to his room and leave.
“Yo!” I greet loudly. England looks at me, blinks and looks away. “Aww don’t be shy ‘cause the hero came! How’re y’ doing?” I smile and sit on the edge of his bed. I’m really glad that he’s fine. Now it’d just take a pissed answer to make sure. “Hey, would you look at that,” I point at a something on his nightstand, “do they feed this to you? What are they, trying to kill you or something?” I grin, expecting him to retort. But what’s wrong with him? I’m sure he followed my hand and looked at the (really, what is that?) but now he’s staring out of the window, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t blush, doesn’t anything. “Hey England,” I try again. He turns to me with a glint of something disturbing I can’t remember in his eyes. He opens his mouth as if he wanted to say something but then shuts it and his head droops. Weird, this isn’t the England I know. He looks way too much like the last time. Didn’t they say he was doing good? Really, what is with this attitude, it makes me sore!
“England! Hey! Talk! Aliens came and ate your fairies! Your scones are disgusting! Hey!” “Sir you can’t shout at him like that,” a passing nurse peeps in. “Please calm down. Mr. Kirkland is suffering from attention deficit disorder, he cannot answer you.” Like hell! How can a country suffer from attention whatever it was? “England, come on! Snap out of it!” I shake him. A firm hand grabs my shoulder. “Sir, if you don’t calm down, I’ll be forced to march you out,” the nurse looms above me. What the hell, is that girl Russian? She’s scary... “O-okay...” I agree, letting go of England. “That’s better,” she approves and leaves. I turn to England and sigh. “Jeez, England...” “Don’t call...” “...Huh? What did you say?” Ha, talk about some attention! “Don’t call... call me... England,” he says. Oh, that’s right. I called him England in front of a nurse. “Oh well, they probably know already,” I shoot him a smile. I get no answer, he’s... actually, he’s examining my star. And he’s touching it. I squirm away. “Talk about etiquette!” I scold and sit again. England looks surprised for a moment, then goes straight back to feeling Vegas. I sigh. All right, there is something about the attention thing. But I can’t help it, England looks kind of cute this way. He doesn’t blush but doing everything with such a childlike serious face, it almost makes me laugh. Which is a welcome relief.
Suddenly, I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. England’s eyes have darkened and that disturbing look I can’t remember appeared again. His breath speeds up and he looks directly at me. “Oh... it’s you America.” “Why, yes it’s me, the hero! Great thing you remem-” “It’s you, you... git.” Hey, is that the proper way to... “You... You don’t know. Don’t you know? You don’t know.” Weird, usually he uses more words than that... “How would you know? You don’t know. I never told you. No, I never did.” He’s... kinda feverish. His face is red. “I never did tell you because I... I never did. I vowed. I never did.” I’m getting scared, what’s he- “I never did, do you know? Don’t you, you don’t, you git. Do you? Do you want to know?!” Really scared. “Well I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you so you know! See this?!” He lifts his hands. “See this? See the blood? See the crimson I shed for you? Only for you, only for you!” I think I should go get a nurse. “Remember? 1776! Remember?!” Too scared to move. “It was the same! The same! 1776, see the blood? It was the same! From my wrists, from my England, see the money, see the blood? I lost them for you! Lost me for you!... But you don’t know, I’d never tell. I vowed. A secret. Secret. V-vow...”
“S-sis!!” I scream. They push me out of the room and put wheezing England to sleep. I wish they would do the same to my thoughts. What... what the fuck was that?! I get he was talking about the Revolutionary War but what the fuck was that about blood? Did he... say he bled like that in 1776? He couldn’t have meant he blamed me... c-could he? Now, could he? “Would you like some tea?” a British nurse asks sympathetically. “Coffee, please.” She nods and goes down the hallway. Did he have a recession and thought it was my fault? And he kept saying he’d never tell me. Hey England, even after all those years, does it still hurt so much that it makes you say such horrible things to me? God England, I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know... I-I’m...
I walk back into his room. I lean on the railing of his bed and regard his face. He looks peaceful now. As peaceful as for those centuries he didn’t want to tell me. “I didn’t know,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I... didn’t know.” I feel like crying.
“I didn’t know... and you knew it,” I realize. “You knew I didn’t know any you still didn’t want to tell me. You vowed not to tell me...” I fail a miserable smile. “A true gentleman...” I look at his wrists, his legs, his head, his heart. “You can’t even share your own unhappiness. Poor English thing.” I stroll over and stroke his hair. “It’s okay. I still like you.” I stand there. “And I’m sorry. But the next time you’re feeling bad, tell your hero, okay?” I take his heartbeat as an answer. “Okay.” I walk out to meet the nurse who’s brought me coffee. I thank her and return to the plane.
Now, let’s talk bussiness and save the world.