wingborne | how does it feel to be;

“So you heard.”

“Yeah.” America chewed on the edge of his dried, flaky lips. His guilty newspaper lay half-crumpled over his desk, barely illuminated by the light flickering in from the dusty windows.

“She sank.” It was unfair, because the light spread over America’s back, but it stopped on the bridge of his desk, leaving England as a phantom in the dark. He couldn’t see England’s features, just a shapeless form with black gloves, and he could only see the glove because England had spread his bony hand over the newspaper. The newspaper that had already yellowed in the sun, crinkled at the edges, screaming blocky headlines.

“We’re neutral. I told you, we’re neutral.” His eyes flickered over to his right wall, where he knew President Wilson sat conferring with his people. “We’re neutral.”

“Yes.”

“But those were my people on that ship.” America shook his head. The fury felt sickening in his throat, running like fires to clench on his veins. He squared his fists, clenched his teeth, and still he could only stare at the aging newspaper that seemed to wither before his eyes. The American passengers had done nothing wrong. They had been neutral, and now they were dead. Neutral, then dead. Unknowing, then dead. Alive, then dead. He tried to think it out, but it was hard, with England pressing upon him in the too-small room.

“Yes,” England repeated, fingers half-curled at the edge of the print. “It’s those Huns. Those goddamned Huns and their fucking submarines. You understand, now, don’t you? What we’re up against?”

“I’m neutral!” America shoved the desk, so hard that it flinched a few inches into the shadowy figures. But the phantom on the other side merely rose, standing up, growing in its shadowy tinge until only the cuffs of the war uniform, the bandages on his wrist, and his black print gloves could be seen.

“Will you let this pass, America? When your people have died, because that fucking Germany has decided to use submarines anywhere, everywhere? How many of your people have died? How many of mine? She sank, America, she sank carrying passengers, and has she sunk in vain?” England suddenly leaned forward, and America found himself staring into a face half-curled in anger, eyebrows brought together viciously, mouth twisted into a snarl. “Innocent people have died, and they’ll keep dying. Germany is celebrating, right at this moment, prettying himself up with honors and awards. He’ll tell his schoolchildren to salute his flag and congratulate themselves, take the whole bloody damn day off, he’ll say, because we sank the Lusitania. We’ve done it, boys, and that America, he just laid there like a fish and took it.”

“England.” But it was too late. England furiously kicked at the desk, and it collided into America’s knee, jostling his bones until his jaw ached. Even as he stood up, his shadow falling over the newspaper, England was already striding towards the door, pulling it up with a violent movement. He was still in the dark, shifting as always, but America could hear his shallow breathing.

“You won’t forget this, America. The sinking of the RMS Lusitania has changed you.” England turned suddenly, and only his green eyes seemed to glow in the dimness. “How many more of our boys need to die before you figure it out?”

America stiffened, but the door was already slammed. He stared down at the newspaper, spreading the bad news, stared down at his phone, stared down at his desk. The resentment had already begun to build in his heart, a deep plague, where he could hear England’s words about Germany’s celebrations dancing through his head. And later, later, when he opened his mail and found a photocopy of a medal, his jaw would tighten in the same way, the way he would look for four years.