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Entry tags:
waiting for something, hoping to be saved;
Summary: Man--or country???
America hated England, because the weather was always gloomy, clouds overhung, food terrible, and he always cried and talked about his fairies and never acknowledged how awesome America was, and was just generally weird. But on a gloomy, overhung Tuesday afternoon, chewing gingerly on some fish and chips, he found himself driving down a crooked dirt road to a small English village.
The map lay crumpled in the seat next to him, along with greasy hamburger wrappers. Fumbling, he managed to smooth out the map against his lap, even as he pulled into a make-shift parking spot on the road. He had to wade through deep, thick shafts of grass to finally stand on the road, glancing occasionally at the sky with a scowl. But he locked his car, and began to set down the road, down the little path that crooked and kinked sharply, down the little houses that were all quaint and small and had thick green gardens. Everything seemed to be filtered through a gray haze as the clouds rumbled ominously above.
He hiked for a good minute before he scowled and glanced at the map again. For some of England’s weird money, he’d bought the map at a train station, and it was annoying. His own world map was useless here. It may have only taken him a few hours to visit England, but to visit England’s house—that took even more time. The bubbling irritation finally began to spill over.
“Are you lost?”
He jolted at the creaky old voice, but found an old woman with a broad hat, wearing a white knit shawl and carrying a green watering can, standing in her garden. She peered at him through heavily wrinkled eyes, leaning against her weathered cane.
“No,” he said, “I know where I’m going.”
“We don’t get many tourists here in Weatherburrow,” she said.
“I’m not a tourist,” he said, slightly annoyed. He wasn’t here to have fun. If he wanted to have fun, he would have gone to Disneyland and played with Mickey Mouse.
“You’re certainly not a native,” the woman said, with a sudden cackle. America cast a long down upon himself, at his brown jacket and boots, and frowned again. The statement irritated him, though he wasn’t sure why.
“You’re annoying,” he said. “I’m going to go now.” He turned and began to head down the winding roads again, map crumpled in his fists.
“So you’re visiting him, are you?”
He stopped. “Him?”
“Only one man who lives that way.” The woman leaned against her cane, and the thick furrows of her face seemed to gather shadows under her hat. “This is a small village. We know everyone here.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Nothing.” The woman said it simply, and turned her head in the direction. A wind gusted through, allowing the evergreen trees to sway slightly, parting enough to reveal a crooked, brown mansion sitting atop the hill.
“I thought you knew everyone here.”
“Nobody is very curious,” she said. “I can’t say I am, myself. It’s very curious, wouldn’t you say?” Her smile seemed to carve into her face. “He has so many distinguishing traits, but they’re all very much the same.”
America folded the map again, stuffing it in his pocket. “I’m going to go now,” he said again, and this time struck even more forward down the road, not looking back. The hill wasn’t very steep, and he easily made good time to the open black iron gates, where a vast garden lay ahead. He gave another uneasy glance up to the gloomy sky, and then trotted inside.
The same green existed extravagantly inside the garden. Rose bushes, though, was the obvious favorite, presiding regally over the other colorful flowers on their throne of bushes. A fountain rippled in the center, and only the occasional gust showed any movement in the garden. America advanced some feet further, and then caught sight of someone moving in the corner.
He didn’t approach, at first, stuffing his hands into his jacket and scowling, because he was really irritated and annoyed. But they had sent him to do this, and the meeting was an important one, and he didn’t care about this entire issue. His scowl deepened when he saw the figure turn around and catch sight of him.
There was a pregnant pause.
“. . . Alfred?”
“Hey,” he said. “Are you going to let me in, or what? It looks like it’s going to rain.”
“Didn’t you bring a brolly?”
“A what?”
“Honestly, Alfred.” Though he sounded annoyed, there was a hint of amusement and fondness lingering. “Well, come in. Give a ring next time—I might have actually been busy.”
“You don’t have any friends,” he said. “Who’d want to visit you?”
“Stupid— I have plenty of friends—”
America watched as he fumbled with his keys to the grand wooden front doors, glancing at the lion knockers.
“Hey, En-Arthur,” he said. “It’s really annoying to visit you like this.”
“It’s annoying for you to suddenly drop in.” The doors suddenly parted into the dark foyer. Arthur gave a small impatient sound and entered, tossing his keys onto the table carelessly. America stamped his feet onto the welcome mat, and allowed the mud to drip onto the carpet as he shut the doors behind himself, glancing down the hallways. Nothing had changed, like nothing ever changed. The paintings stood remained, scenery filled with careful brushes, and a rich plush red carpet that lead into a sitting room.
“Sit down, I’ll make you something.”
“I don’t want your disgusting food.”
“Shut up, you cheeky prat.” But he didn’t sound angry, and through the open door to the kitchen, he could hear sounds of cheerful humming.
He didn’t sit down at first, browsing through the bookshelves. The entire room seemed steeped
with history, from the prestigious walls to the lovely paintings to the faded couches. When he ran his fingers along the spines of the leather-bound books, he wasn’t surprised to find all the English classics, though his finger did pause along one particular pamphlet. It was his—Thomas Paine—and he began to take it out, but then decided better.
Along the top shelf, guarded by glass, rows of unicorn and fairy statuettes stood primly and sparkled against the light that the chandelier threw out. He found it unlocked, and took out a unicorn model, turning it over in his hands, not very impressed.
“Don’t touch that.” Arthur shuffled out, now wearing a pink frilly apron over his suit. He bent to the glass table in the center, unloading from the tray the food and tea.
“I can’t believe you still have stupid stuff like this.”
“Put that back.”
“It’s totally uncool.” He placed it back onto the shelf. “And creepy.”
“Nobody asked you to look.”
“I don’t want to look.” His fingers trailed down again to the third shelf, this time to an auburn box. He found it also unlocked, and opened it to find ancient parchments that he knew only too well. He had drawn those pictures, after all, in black ink, scratched out terribly.
“Don’t touch that, either.”
“These are mine to begin with,” he said, annoyed. “Throw them out. It’s annoying.”
“And it’s none of your business. Now, sit down. Your coffee is getting cold.”
He was annoyed that he was being treated like a child, but the idea that Arthur had swallowed his pride enough to make coffee instead of tea for him was enough to sit him down, watching as the blackened scones made their way to the petite china plate.
“Judging by the dour look on your face,” he said, sipping his tea, “this isn’t a pleasure meeting, I gather?”
“I wouldn’t want to come to your stinky house on my own.” He leaned back and set down his own cup. The coffee felt watered down and weak, and only moistened his appetite in a place where no good food would be found.
“Did you just come back from work?” he asked, noticing the tie. Arthur blinked and glanced down at himself ruefully, still in his suit, though his jacket had been tossed on the table in favor of gardening, and the apron tossed to the kitchen in favor of entertaining.
“Quite,” he said dryly. “Just thought I’d take a look at my roses before I relaxed.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Now you’re just being contradictory,” Arthur said, but not without a small smile. America began to move his leg up and down impatiently. Having an England that didn’t shout and scream and cry at him was too weird. If anything, Arthur seemed calmer, in control.
“Stop that, you’re going to spill something,” Arthur scolded, reaching over to steady America’s cup as the table trembled from his movements.
“Did you cut yourself?”
“What?”
“That stupid bandage.”
“You’re remarkably perceptive today,” Arthur said dryly, pulling his hand back. One hand had been lightly bandaged around his hand, tightening around his wrist. He glanced at it without much thought. “Yes, I wasn’t being careful with the roses. Laugh all you’d like, hahaha.”
America only scowled.
There was another pause, before he said, “You’re stupid.”
He knew it was impulsive and awkward, but to his credit, Arthur did not remark on it. He only gave him a lingering look, and then put down his cup on his plate. He leaned back, folding his hands neatly across his lap.
“Now,” he said. “What’s this all about?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing,” he repeated. “Alfred, please. You come over to my house for no reason, and then you start insulting me willy-nilly. If you have something to tell me, then go ahead and say it.”
“I don’t want to take care of you.” America leaned back further in his seat, grabbing a pillow and clutching it to his stomach. “I came over here to clean up your stupid mess.”
“I can very well take care of myself,” Arthur scoffed.
“You don’t have any friends.”
“Oh, would you stop harping about it?” Arthur looked at him irritably, and then put his empty cup against the plate. The tea kettle began to make a sharp whistling sound, and he rose from his seat. “Excuse me, I was putting on a fresh pot.”
America watched him leave, still glaring at the opposite seat. He gave a sidelong glance to the sides of the room, where an entire wall seemed to be dedicated to pictures. Some were older, some were younger, none of them new. There was Seychelles, and Australia, and Sealand, and Hong Kong—there were many, littering about, though none had any with England in them. He knew he would find himself, if he searched hard enough, but the thought only irritated him more.
“Besides,” the distant voice said, as clattering rose from the kitchen. “it’s not like I need friends. I’m doing well enough. The town has been pleasant.”
“Nobody even knows your name.”
Arthur put down his tea cup, and America didn’t like staring, but he stared. England just seemed so much smaller, every detail broadening and expanding. He could see the wisps of blond hair falling on his strong neck, the muscles tightening around his wrist as he handled the pot, even to the crinkles of the cuffs of his rolled-up sleeves.
He broke his view to glance outside the window.
“Well,” Arthur said, and he sounded tired. “Can’t expect to befriend anyone so easily.”
“Nobody will ever know your name here,” he said. “You should go to the royal palace or whatever. The Queen would remember you.”
“The Queen?” Arthur raised his eyebrow.
America scowled again. “It’s raining.”
“Is it?” Arthur rose from his seat again, this time to close the slight crack in the windows. The wind now whipped the branches against the house, sounding sharp and terrible. Heavy slates of rain had begun to sparkle down, splashing against the panes, clinging before rolling into rivulets down the clear glass.
“It’s always raining.”
“Not always,” Arthur corrected, standing by the window, arms crossed. The shadows of the raindrops passed across his slight figure.
America found himself standing behind him.
“Come back,” he heard himself saying.
Arthur turned partly, but caught himself in time. “Come back where?”
“I don’t like taking care of you,” America said crossly.
“I liked taking care of you.” Arthur lowered his head and chuckled. “You were sweet as a child—“
“But I’m not a child anymore, and you’re too stupid to recognize it.”
“But I do recognize it.” Arthur turned around fully now, and even though he looked haggard and tired, the faint smile was genuine. “You’ve grown into a fine man, Alfred. You’ve helped me out in a tight spot. When you left—that was a messy affair. But perhaps you’re right.” He patted America’s shoulder warmly. “Perhaps I just don’t know when to let go.”
“You’re letting go too much,” America found himself blurting.
“Nonsense.”
“Stop being stupid and come back—“
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
America searched wildly, before suddenly pointing to the figurines along the top shelf. “The fairies—you can see them, right?”
Arthur looked bewildered and somewhat hurt for a moment. “You know I only imagined them when I was a child,” he finally said. “No, I don’t see them. They’re just relics—like this house—“
“This house.” America firmly put his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, trying to hold him tight, press upon him the knowledge. “You have all these suits of armors in there, right? And whatever—whatever historical stuff, right? That’s more than you can ever acquire from just a stupid hobby.”
“What?” Arthur tried to squirm out of his grasp, but gave up after finding the task impossible.
“It’s just a hobby.”
“You fought in the war,” America said. “Which war?”
“I-I don’t—“
“All of them. Because you’re England,” he said. Then, he insisted. “You’re England.”
“How can I possibly be a country, Alfred?” Arthur’s piercing green eyes met his head-on. “I’m just a man.”
America found himself loosening his grip, and just stared at the wall even as he heard the clattering of china plates behind him, as the meeting was cleaned up, swept under the table. It happened—every so often. Only to England. The first time it had happened, he didn’t care. He still didn’t care. He hadn’t been worried, or lost, or fearful, to see his mentor look at him so blandly, so confused. He hadn’t been scared to see his older brother wandering around his own house, gazing at each painting with something akin to terror in his eyes. He wasn’t worried. He didn’t care at all.
He knew that he didn’t have to come. That tomorrow, England would wake up and not remember a thing about it, and he would attend the meeting, and nobody would talk about it—because some people genuinely forgot, others didn’t care—and they’d go back to being countries. But he knew that it was appearing more frequently, and he learned to recognize the signs. First during a meeting, he would catch him gazing out the window, with a lonely look in his eyes. Or perhaps gazing at a huddle, but refusing to join in, but looking. Or attending a birthday party, gift in his hand, but a yearning look in his eyes.
He finally looked at the pictures now, because he would have to leave soon, take his car, drive back home. On the top frame, he could see his child form, sleeping underneath a trip in a nightgown. He stuffed his fists into his jacket, resisting the temptation to take it and rip it into pieces.
“Alfred?”
He turned around.
Arthur peered at him. “Will—that be all?”
“Do you want me to stay?” It was an impulsive question, and one he had never asked before, because he had known the answer, and the answer had always been a resounding yes. But this time, he could only see faint amusement again, and Arthur released a chuckle, that seemed to rumble from the back of his throat.
“No,” he said. “You’re busy. Go on.”
“I’m not that busy.”
“No—“ Suddenly, Arthur seized his head and seemed to collapse, though he stopped himself by grapping the edge of the couch. America reached forward, but found his hand shooed away, even as Arthur’s face grew even more pale and pallid against the dimming light.
“No,” he repeated. “I’m all right. Just tired. A long day of work. Please, Alfred, go on.”
“You’ll be alone,” he said.
“I’m a grown man.”
A long time ago, he had been—taken care of—but England. But when the time had come to return the favor, America could only find himself shrinking back.
“Now, go on,” Arthur shooed. “I’ve loads of work to do, too. And I’m tired. Don’t make me entertain a guest at this late hour. Here—take a bro—an umbrella. Now, give a ring if you get into any trouble. I’ll see you later.”
America found himself on the doorstep with a gray umbrella, and without another word, began to troop down the garden. When he reached the iron gates, he turned back, and he could see Arthur, leaning against the door. He jolted at the sight of America turning, and gave a small, sheepish wave, before closing the doors with a sense of finality.
The trees no longer gave any protection from the rain, so America took a deep breath and opened the umbrella. He felt a slip of paper slide into his fingers as the umbrella spread its protection, and he glanced down at the slightly damp paper in his hand. In a terrible scrawl, in a shaky handwriting, he could make out the words.
Thanks, America.
America stared at it silently, then pushed it into his jacket pocket and went down the muddy slope, past the empty garden where the woman had once stood, to his car. He yanked the door open, slid into the driver’s seat, and started up the car easily. He flicked on the headlights and tried to turn on the windshield wipers, only to realize that his poor eyesight wasn’t because of the rain.
He pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, wiping his face, trying to dry it, even as he struggled to control small chokes. Tomorrow, England wouldn’t remember a thing, wouldn’t remember being a man, wouldn’t remember his visit. And then, a few days, a few weeks, a few months later, he would disappear again, with the faint amusement written on his face even as his body shook and trembled. And it would continue, like all things continued.
As the world continued to turn.
America hated England, because the weather was always gloomy, clouds overhung, food terrible, and he always cried and talked about his fairies and never acknowledged how awesome America was, and was just generally weird. But on a gloomy, overhung Tuesday afternoon, chewing gingerly on some fish and chips, he found himself driving down a crooked dirt road to a small English village.
The map lay crumpled in the seat next to him, along with greasy hamburger wrappers. Fumbling, he managed to smooth out the map against his lap, even as he pulled into a make-shift parking spot on the road. He had to wade through deep, thick shafts of grass to finally stand on the road, glancing occasionally at the sky with a scowl. But he locked his car, and began to set down the road, down the little path that crooked and kinked sharply, down the little houses that were all quaint and small and had thick green gardens. Everything seemed to be filtered through a gray haze as the clouds rumbled ominously above.
He hiked for a good minute before he scowled and glanced at the map again. For some of England’s weird money, he’d bought the map at a train station, and it was annoying. His own world map was useless here. It may have only taken him a few hours to visit England, but to visit England’s house—that took even more time. The bubbling irritation finally began to spill over.
“Are you lost?”
He jolted at the creaky old voice, but found an old woman with a broad hat, wearing a white knit shawl and carrying a green watering can, standing in her garden. She peered at him through heavily wrinkled eyes, leaning against her weathered cane.
“No,” he said, “I know where I’m going.”
“We don’t get many tourists here in Weatherburrow,” she said.
“I’m not a tourist,” he said, slightly annoyed. He wasn’t here to have fun. If he wanted to have fun, he would have gone to Disneyland and played with Mickey Mouse.
“You’re certainly not a native,” the woman said, with a sudden cackle. America cast a long down upon himself, at his brown jacket and boots, and frowned again. The statement irritated him, though he wasn’t sure why.
“You’re annoying,” he said. “I’m going to go now.” He turned and began to head down the winding roads again, map crumpled in his fists.
“So you’re visiting him, are you?”
He stopped. “Him?”
“Only one man who lives that way.” The woman leaned against her cane, and the thick furrows of her face seemed to gather shadows under her hat. “This is a small village. We know everyone here.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Nothing.” The woman said it simply, and turned her head in the direction. A wind gusted through, allowing the evergreen trees to sway slightly, parting enough to reveal a crooked, brown mansion sitting atop the hill.
“I thought you knew everyone here.”
“Nobody is very curious,” she said. “I can’t say I am, myself. It’s very curious, wouldn’t you say?” Her smile seemed to carve into her face. “He has so many distinguishing traits, but they’re all very much the same.”
America folded the map again, stuffing it in his pocket. “I’m going to go now,” he said again, and this time struck even more forward down the road, not looking back. The hill wasn’t very steep, and he easily made good time to the open black iron gates, where a vast garden lay ahead. He gave another uneasy glance up to the gloomy sky, and then trotted inside.
The same green existed extravagantly inside the garden. Rose bushes, though, was the obvious favorite, presiding regally over the other colorful flowers on their throne of bushes. A fountain rippled in the center, and only the occasional gust showed any movement in the garden. America advanced some feet further, and then caught sight of someone moving in the corner.
He didn’t approach, at first, stuffing his hands into his jacket and scowling, because he was really irritated and annoyed. But they had sent him to do this, and the meeting was an important one, and he didn’t care about this entire issue. His scowl deepened when he saw the figure turn around and catch sight of him.
There was a pregnant pause.
“. . . Alfred?”
“Hey,” he said. “Are you going to let me in, or what? It looks like it’s going to rain.”
“Didn’t you bring a brolly?”
“A what?”
“Honestly, Alfred.” Though he sounded annoyed, there was a hint of amusement and fondness lingering. “Well, come in. Give a ring next time—I might have actually been busy.”
“You don’t have any friends,” he said. “Who’d want to visit you?”
“Stupid— I have plenty of friends—”
America watched as he fumbled with his keys to the grand wooden front doors, glancing at the lion knockers.
“Hey, En-Arthur,” he said. “It’s really annoying to visit you like this.”
“It’s annoying for you to suddenly drop in.” The doors suddenly parted into the dark foyer. Arthur gave a small impatient sound and entered, tossing his keys onto the table carelessly. America stamped his feet onto the welcome mat, and allowed the mud to drip onto the carpet as he shut the doors behind himself, glancing down the hallways. Nothing had changed, like nothing ever changed. The paintings stood remained, scenery filled with careful brushes, and a rich plush red carpet that lead into a sitting room.
“Sit down, I’ll make you something.”
“I don’t want your disgusting food.”
“Shut up, you cheeky prat.” But he didn’t sound angry, and through the open door to the kitchen, he could hear sounds of cheerful humming.
He didn’t sit down at first, browsing through the bookshelves. The entire room seemed steeped
with history, from the prestigious walls to the lovely paintings to the faded couches. When he ran his fingers along the spines of the leather-bound books, he wasn’t surprised to find all the English classics, though his finger did pause along one particular pamphlet. It was his—Thomas Paine—and he began to take it out, but then decided better.
Along the top shelf, guarded by glass, rows of unicorn and fairy statuettes stood primly and sparkled against the light that the chandelier threw out. He found it unlocked, and took out a unicorn model, turning it over in his hands, not very impressed.
“Don’t touch that.” Arthur shuffled out, now wearing a pink frilly apron over his suit. He bent to the glass table in the center, unloading from the tray the food and tea.
“I can’t believe you still have stupid stuff like this.”
“Put that back.”
“It’s totally uncool.” He placed it back onto the shelf. “And creepy.”
“Nobody asked you to look.”
“I don’t want to look.” His fingers trailed down again to the third shelf, this time to an auburn box. He found it also unlocked, and opened it to find ancient parchments that he knew only too well. He had drawn those pictures, after all, in black ink, scratched out terribly.
“Don’t touch that, either.”
“These are mine to begin with,” he said, annoyed. “Throw them out. It’s annoying.”
“And it’s none of your business. Now, sit down. Your coffee is getting cold.”
He was annoyed that he was being treated like a child, but the idea that Arthur had swallowed his pride enough to make coffee instead of tea for him was enough to sit him down, watching as the blackened scones made their way to the petite china plate.
“Judging by the dour look on your face,” he said, sipping his tea, “this isn’t a pleasure meeting, I gather?”
“I wouldn’t want to come to your stinky house on my own.” He leaned back and set down his own cup. The coffee felt watered down and weak, and only moistened his appetite in a place where no good food would be found.
“Did you just come back from work?” he asked, noticing the tie. Arthur blinked and glanced down at himself ruefully, still in his suit, though his jacket had been tossed on the table in favor of gardening, and the apron tossed to the kitchen in favor of entertaining.
“Quite,” he said dryly. “Just thought I’d take a look at my roses before I relaxed.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Now you’re just being contradictory,” Arthur said, but not without a small smile. America began to move his leg up and down impatiently. Having an England that didn’t shout and scream and cry at him was too weird. If anything, Arthur seemed calmer, in control.
“Stop that, you’re going to spill something,” Arthur scolded, reaching over to steady America’s cup as the table trembled from his movements.
“Did you cut yourself?”
“What?”
“That stupid bandage.”
“You’re remarkably perceptive today,” Arthur said dryly, pulling his hand back. One hand had been lightly bandaged around his hand, tightening around his wrist. He glanced at it without much thought. “Yes, I wasn’t being careful with the roses. Laugh all you’d like, hahaha.”
America only scowled.
There was another pause, before he said, “You’re stupid.”
He knew it was impulsive and awkward, but to his credit, Arthur did not remark on it. He only gave him a lingering look, and then put down his cup on his plate. He leaned back, folding his hands neatly across his lap.
“Now,” he said. “What’s this all about?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing,” he repeated. “Alfred, please. You come over to my house for no reason, and then you start insulting me willy-nilly. If you have something to tell me, then go ahead and say it.”
“I don’t want to take care of you.” America leaned back further in his seat, grabbing a pillow and clutching it to his stomach. “I came over here to clean up your stupid mess.”
“I can very well take care of myself,” Arthur scoffed.
“You don’t have any friends.”
“Oh, would you stop harping about it?” Arthur looked at him irritably, and then put his empty cup against the plate. The tea kettle began to make a sharp whistling sound, and he rose from his seat. “Excuse me, I was putting on a fresh pot.”
America watched him leave, still glaring at the opposite seat. He gave a sidelong glance to the sides of the room, where an entire wall seemed to be dedicated to pictures. Some were older, some were younger, none of them new. There was Seychelles, and Australia, and Sealand, and Hong Kong—there were many, littering about, though none had any with England in them. He knew he would find himself, if he searched hard enough, but the thought only irritated him more.
“Besides,” the distant voice said, as clattering rose from the kitchen. “it’s not like I need friends. I’m doing well enough. The town has been pleasant.”
“Nobody even knows your name.”
Arthur put down his tea cup, and America didn’t like staring, but he stared. England just seemed so much smaller, every detail broadening and expanding. He could see the wisps of blond hair falling on his strong neck, the muscles tightening around his wrist as he handled the pot, even to the crinkles of the cuffs of his rolled-up sleeves.
He broke his view to glance outside the window.
“Well,” Arthur said, and he sounded tired. “Can’t expect to befriend anyone so easily.”
“Nobody will ever know your name here,” he said. “You should go to the royal palace or whatever. The Queen would remember you.”
“The Queen?” Arthur raised his eyebrow.
America scowled again. “It’s raining.”
“Is it?” Arthur rose from his seat again, this time to close the slight crack in the windows. The wind now whipped the branches against the house, sounding sharp and terrible. Heavy slates of rain had begun to sparkle down, splashing against the panes, clinging before rolling into rivulets down the clear glass.
“It’s always raining.”
“Not always,” Arthur corrected, standing by the window, arms crossed. The shadows of the raindrops passed across his slight figure.
America found himself standing behind him.
“Come back,” he heard himself saying.
Arthur turned partly, but caught himself in time. “Come back where?”
“I don’t like taking care of you,” America said crossly.
“I liked taking care of you.” Arthur lowered his head and chuckled. “You were sweet as a child—“
“But I’m not a child anymore, and you’re too stupid to recognize it.”
“But I do recognize it.” Arthur turned around fully now, and even though he looked haggard and tired, the faint smile was genuine. “You’ve grown into a fine man, Alfred. You’ve helped me out in a tight spot. When you left—that was a messy affair. But perhaps you’re right.” He patted America’s shoulder warmly. “Perhaps I just don’t know when to let go.”
“You’re letting go too much,” America found himself blurting.
“Nonsense.”
“Stop being stupid and come back—“
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
America searched wildly, before suddenly pointing to the figurines along the top shelf. “The fairies—you can see them, right?”
Arthur looked bewildered and somewhat hurt for a moment. “You know I only imagined them when I was a child,” he finally said. “No, I don’t see them. They’re just relics—like this house—“
“This house.” America firmly put his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, trying to hold him tight, press upon him the knowledge. “You have all these suits of armors in there, right? And whatever—whatever historical stuff, right? That’s more than you can ever acquire from just a stupid hobby.”
“What?” Arthur tried to squirm out of his grasp, but gave up after finding the task impossible.
“It’s just a hobby.”
“You fought in the war,” America said. “Which war?”
“I-I don’t—“
“All of them. Because you’re England,” he said. Then, he insisted. “You’re England.”
“How can I possibly be a country, Alfred?” Arthur’s piercing green eyes met his head-on. “I’m just a man.”
America found himself loosening his grip, and just stared at the wall even as he heard the clattering of china plates behind him, as the meeting was cleaned up, swept under the table. It happened—every so often. Only to England. The first time it had happened, he didn’t care. He still didn’t care. He hadn’t been worried, or lost, or fearful, to see his mentor look at him so blandly, so confused. He hadn’t been scared to see his older brother wandering around his own house, gazing at each painting with something akin to terror in his eyes. He wasn’t worried. He didn’t care at all.
He knew that he didn’t have to come. That tomorrow, England would wake up and not remember a thing about it, and he would attend the meeting, and nobody would talk about it—because some people genuinely forgot, others didn’t care—and they’d go back to being countries. But he knew that it was appearing more frequently, and he learned to recognize the signs. First during a meeting, he would catch him gazing out the window, with a lonely look in his eyes. Or perhaps gazing at a huddle, but refusing to join in, but looking. Or attending a birthday party, gift in his hand, but a yearning look in his eyes.
He finally looked at the pictures now, because he would have to leave soon, take his car, drive back home. On the top frame, he could see his child form, sleeping underneath a trip in a nightgown. He stuffed his fists into his jacket, resisting the temptation to take it and rip it into pieces.
“Alfred?”
He turned around.
Arthur peered at him. “Will—that be all?”
“Do you want me to stay?” It was an impulsive question, and one he had never asked before, because he had known the answer, and the answer had always been a resounding yes. But this time, he could only see faint amusement again, and Arthur released a chuckle, that seemed to rumble from the back of his throat.
“No,” he said. “You’re busy. Go on.”
“I’m not that busy.”
“No—“ Suddenly, Arthur seized his head and seemed to collapse, though he stopped himself by grapping the edge of the couch. America reached forward, but found his hand shooed away, even as Arthur’s face grew even more pale and pallid against the dimming light.
“No,” he repeated. “I’m all right. Just tired. A long day of work. Please, Alfred, go on.”
“You’ll be alone,” he said.
“I’m a grown man.”
A long time ago, he had been—taken care of—but England. But when the time had come to return the favor, America could only find himself shrinking back.
“Now, go on,” Arthur shooed. “I’ve loads of work to do, too. And I’m tired. Don’t make me entertain a guest at this late hour. Here—take a bro—an umbrella. Now, give a ring if you get into any trouble. I’ll see you later.”
America found himself on the doorstep with a gray umbrella, and without another word, began to troop down the garden. When he reached the iron gates, he turned back, and he could see Arthur, leaning against the door. He jolted at the sight of America turning, and gave a small, sheepish wave, before closing the doors with a sense of finality.
The trees no longer gave any protection from the rain, so America took a deep breath and opened the umbrella. He felt a slip of paper slide into his fingers as the umbrella spread its protection, and he glanced down at the slightly damp paper in his hand. In a terrible scrawl, in a shaky handwriting, he could make out the words.
Thanks, America.
America stared at it silently, then pushed it into his jacket pocket and went down the muddy slope, past the empty garden where the woman had once stood, to his car. He yanked the door open, slid into the driver’s seat, and started up the car easily. He flicked on the headlights and tried to turn on the windshield wipers, only to realize that his poor eyesight wasn’t because of the rain.
He pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, wiping his face, trying to dry it, even as he struggled to control small chokes. Tomorrow, England wouldn’t remember a thing, wouldn’t remember being a man, wouldn’t remember his visit. And then, a few days, a few weeks, a few months later, he would disappear again, with the faint amusement written on his face even as his body shook and trembled. And it would continue, like all things continued.
As the world continued to turn.