Fanfiction: Pangaea

[narroch.livejournal.com]

Title: Pangaea
Author/Artist: Cowritten with narroch and RobinRocks
Character(s) or Pairing(s): USUK and various others
Rating: M
Warnings: Yaoi
Summary: On the eve of the outbreak of the Second World War, England and America disappear. From history.

Chapter 1: Thirty-Nine



Pangaea

Am Anfang

"Understand that this invasion was not decided on a whim. You were not selected at random, Poland, to be my second step – rather, this has taken many months of very careful planning. You were chosen for this." Germany narrowed his blue eyes at Poland; who, despite already having a hideous bruise blooming darkly across his feminine face courtesy of Russia, still seemed rather defiant, as though not quite ready to accept that he had been beaten down and invaded. "But you know that. You knew that this was going to happen. France and England even warned you. You could have taken far better precautions than you did."

Poland gave a snort, pursing his lips into a sneer.

"Like this is going to make any difference," he said blithely, waving his hand at Germany dismissively. "You guys should just totally get out of my house while the going is still good, you know? England and France are going to declare war all over your asses if you don't. That's, like, a given."

Russia smiled. Prussia gave a short, harsh bark of laughter. Italy didn't look up from the spread of miniature glass ponies galloping across the mantelpiece he was examining.

Germany gave a grim smile, tightly controlled so it spoke more of intimidation than any real joy, and leaned forward in his chair – Poland's chair, in fact. They were all in Poland's living room, clustered close like a small makeshift court, Germany in the center in an armchair, Italy hovering nearby, more engrossed with Poland's knick knacks than the country himself, Russia perched largely and politely on the edge of the sofa and Prussia draped over the back of it like a cat, his scarlet eyes darting this way and that, interested and thoroughly bored all at once.

Poland stood before them like a criminal in the dock and, though he looked down on them in their seated positions, the haughty disdain in the invader's eyes made it clear who was on trial. Poland was bloodied and beaten and bruised from where they had forced their way into his house earlier; bright flashes of color smeared across his once-immaculate face and uniform as tribute to the violence he'd endured in the four-against-one attack. Despite everything, and in spite of the pain he was undoubtedly in, his arms were folded and his weight rested on one leg, his hips tilted in a petulant stance quite unlike that of a soldier – or even a loser.

"I am ready for them," Germany said matter-of-factly, his tone patient as though explaining something to a child.

Poland rolled his eyes and flipped his wrist yet again.

"Oh, sure, yeah, just like you were "ready for them" last time?" he asked scathingly, even going so far as to employ taunting quotation marks with his fingers. "I seem to recall you getting your sorry butt kicked back in the 'teens."

Germany straightened again, irritated by Poland's persistence in being so obtusely ignorant to the fact that he'd been invaded – and, of course, for stupidly digging up old wounds to salt them with sarcasm.

"Twenty years changes much," he replied tersely. "I have worked hard since the Great War to make myself strong once more."

"And that's lovely," Poland said, "but I don't see why you can't just go and be your brawny-self in your own house. Why'd you have to come over here and barge in uninvited? It's totally rude and I, like, don't even care anyway. What's your deal, seriously?"

"I was treated very unfairly at the end of the war," Germany snapped, snarling at the memory. "England and France did all they could to cripple me."

"Uh, yeah, to stop you starting another war!"

"I didn't start the Great War – Austria and Hungary did against Serbia. I merely supported them."

"And you all got your sorry butts kicked," Poland finished with a yawn, dragging his fingers through his hair until they caught in a sticky patch of blood. He pulled back to examine his palm before continuing, not bothering to make eye contact. "It's ancient history now. God, move on already! I don't need this hassle right now, seriously! I mean, look, if you're so riled up over it, go invade France!"

Germany's icy eyes glinted at the name.

"Oh, I intend to," he said pleasantly, though his eyes continued to gleam with a caustic light.

Poland pointed behind him, ignoring the blatant tension he was causing.

"Well, there's the door." He crossed to the sofa and flopped down onto it dramatically, elbowing Russia. "Hey, like, budge up? I can't even sit down in my own house!"

"That is correct," Russia agreed cheerfully, shoving Poland in the back and sending him face-first onto the floor.

Prussia howled with laughter, sprawling over the back of the seat.

"God, who brought the hyena?" Poland spat, kneeling up; he turned crossly towards Russia. "And you, I don't know what your problem is but Liet is totally gonna kick your ass when he finds out you were in on invading me!"

Russia merely smiled serenely at him.

"Lithuania will do no such thing," he responded calmly. "He will do as I tell him. The Soviet Union is a close family, you see, and not one of us turns his – or her – back on their brothers and sisters."

"That's what you think!" Poland stuck out his tongue. "Liet totally, like, called me when he overheard you saying you were gonna invade me with Germany!"

"And still you did nothing?" Germany cut in before Russia could speak. "Are you simply deliberately stupid, Poland?"

"Hey! That's big talk from someone who invaded me after England and France totally said not to or they'd come beat you up again like they did last time!"

"This will not be as it was before," Germany said, rising abruptly to stand at his full, impressive height. "England and France are going to pay for what they did to me – and, contrary to what England thinks, Czechoslovakia is not nearly enough to pacify my anger and humiliation."

"Germany..." Italy suddenly looked up, craning his neck towards Germany as the potent anger bubbling barely beneath the surface caught his attention more than the words themselves. "You said this wasn't about revenge. You promised."

Poland glared at Italy as though suddenly noticing that he was there at all.

"Yeah, I meant to ask," he said coolly, pointing accusingly at Italy, who had ducked and crouched behind Germany to avoid the fierce look, "what's with the quivering little lap-dog?"

"That's what I said," Prussia put in, genuinely curious about Germany's response. He sure as hell couldn't see any reason for keeping such a weakling under his wing just as their plan was taking flight.

"He is not your concern," Germany answered coldly, turning then to Prussia after addressing Poland. "Nor yours."

Prussia shrugged. He would find out eventually.

"Whatever," he muttered. "Guess it's nice to have something pretty to look at, at least..."

"Okay, look," Poland said shortly, getting to his feet again and squaring up to Germany despite being a lot smaller than him. "I don't know what you promised your little pet over there but this sounds exactly like a revenge-plan to me and let me tell you now that I don't want anything to do with it. You wanna go pick a fight with France and England, fine, they seem like they're up for it – but don't drag everyone into it like you guys did last time. That was totally uncalled for! God, by the end of it like everyone in the world showed up – America and Australia and Japan, for crying out loud!"

"Oh, I assure you that this is going to be a spectacle quite unlike the Great War," Germany replied very calmly. "There will be no time for anyone to be "dragged in" – beginning with you, we shall swiftly make our way westward. We shall take Belgium, we shall take Holland, we shall take Luxembourg; we shall take Denmark and Sweden and Finland and Norway. We shall take France and crush him before he can mobilize. We shall isolate England and destroy him if need be; Spain and Romano are neutral but will act as a satisfactory block against England's ally Portugal if they are required to do so. It will all be very quick, very painless and very complete – all of Europe will fly under one flag and be united in a common way of thinking. When Europe is united then we shall expand outwards to Asia, to Australasia and Africa and to America and Canada. This is not intended to be a war, Poland – this will be a union, a new beginning for the world. It cannot go on as it is."

"Congratulations, Poland," Prussia drawled from the sofa. "You're the first to be amalgamated into the grand new German-Soviet Community or whatever the hell we're calling it."

Poland blinked at Germany, both the blood and surprise starkly lit across his face. It seemed he was lost for words for a short moment before stuttering:

"W-wait, are you, like... trying to take over the world or something?" he asked at length.

"That's a very crude way of putting it," Germany sighed without acknowledging it.

Poland kneaded at his forehead.

"Okay, you are crazy," he said. "I had no idea up until just now but you are completely insane, Germany. A new beginning? Yeah, what you want to do is actually called "creating an Empire" and England is going to be really, really pissed off if you start trying to usurp him."

"I'm crazy?" Germany picked nonchalantly at his cuff. "Then by that logic your wonderful friend England that you keep mentioning is also crazy. He is, at present, the largest Empire that has ever existed in history."

"Oh, yeah, I mean, that's not exactly news," Poland countered, "but at least he's not all like 'I'm doing this for the greater good, everyone will thank me when the world is a better place' about it."

"So you think it's better to be upfront about greed?"

"I think it's better for you to just be upfront about being seriously butthurt over the Great War and the fact that you lost." Poland flapped his hands at Germany in a dismissive manner. "Okay, whatever. Call it what you want – I'm not interested in your let's-all-be-friends-except-not-really-because-I'm-actually-invading-you thingy you have going on here. Go invade someone else. Go invade like India or somewhere and watch how fast England descends on you for touching his stuff."

Germany glanced briefly at Russia, who rose too and approached Poland.

"Poland," Germany said stiffly, nodding to Russia as he joined him, boxing Poland in, "you fail to understand this situation – still. Your house is now under our control. We will not be leaving, nor will we be taking any orders from you. You are now our prisoner and you will cooperate with us if you do not wish for things to become very unpleasant."

Russia grabbed Poland from behind, strong limbs looping up around Poland's arms in a full-nelson, stopping him from struggling or escaping.

"Hey, let go!" Poland screeched, thrashing in Russia's strong grasp. "This is totally, like, assault! Russia, get off me! Let go!"

Without any warning Germany slammed his fist into Poland's gut, silencing him as his eyes grew wide with shock and his lungs trampolined with the effort of bringing in air that had been so completely punched out of him.

"Lock him up, would you?" Germany said grimly, straightening up again. "I expect his bedroom has a lock on the door. Make sure he doesn't escape."

Russia easily dragged Poland out of the room and it wasn't until he had begun to ascend the stairs when Poland finally got his wind back and began to cough and protest loudly.

"Lock me up? You can't imprison me in my own house! Germany, I'm totally gonna kick your ass – how dare you do this to me! When England and France hear about this—!"

A door slammed upstairs and Poland's shrieking was immediately muffled; there was the occasional thud from the ceiling but Russia didn't appear to be having too much trouble pacifying their prisoner.

"Well, that was easy," Prussia sighed, finally hoisting himself over the back of the sofa and landing heavily on it, stretching himself out in four directions like roots to water. "Loud – but easy."

"You didn't even do anything; you have no right to complain." Germany bit out, sinking back into his armchair to collect his thoughts.

Italy crawled timidly towards Germany, clutching the old Italian Bible he always carried with him. Having explored everything of interest in Poland's house, he had intended to curl up next to Germany and read – but that was before everyone started getting scary.

"Germany?" he asked gently in his thickly-accented German. "Are you alright?"

"Of course, Italy," Germany sighed. "Don't concern yourself. I am merely thinking on what to do next – now that we have begun. Things are going to get very complicated very quickly."

Italy looked down at his leather-bound Bible, the edges cracked and spotted from age and use.

"Can I read to you?" he asked. "Perhaps it might help you to think."

"I don't think I can deal with Italian at the moment," Germany sighed honestly. "You know I'm not very good at it."

"I can translate!" Italy chirped, kneeling more comfortably next to Germany's chair. "My German is becoming very good now, isn't it?"

"Y-yes, well... I suppose so," Germany said resignedly. "You can read to me if you want to, Italy."

"Oh, this ought to be good," Prussia muttered with a sneer, closing his eyes and getting comfortable.

Italy ignored him, flipping back to the beginning of his Bible and opening it at Genesis; he scanned over the Italian, his mind working quickly to replace the words with their German equivalents. He leaned against Germany's legs and began to read.

"Am Anfang shuf Gott Himmel und Erde..."

The first time America awoke, drenched in cold sweat, it was dark; or dark enough, at least, the beginnings of grey-violet light crawling in through the gap in the curtains, giving enough definition to all of the odd things in England's room so that they became humped dark shapes, separate enough from each other to be distinguished as lone objects rather than crests of the same black wave. England was asleep next to him, one arm thrown across America's sticky chest and with his head pillowed on America's shoulder. America shifted, turning onto his side, and England nudged against him affectionately, spooning him in his sleep. America leaned back into it, feeling safer for his embrace as it soothed the shivers that shot through him despite the clustered heat of the blankets and England's body acting as a small furnace. He lay motionless, breathing slow and even, trying to become one with the fuzzy silence echoing in his mind until a sudden tremor shattered the stillness and he was swept under again with a memory that reared up unannounced, the painful internal rending of a Civil War quite different to his own – where a parliament had turned against its own king.

The second time America awoke, England was gone and it was light. Very dimly, as though it was miles away, he thought he could hear the shrill ringing of a telephone. The ringing came to an abrupt halt and America couldn't decide if the phone had been answered or if the caller had simply rung off. There was a wet cloth on his forehead but it was warm now; he plucked it off and tossed it onto the bedside table. He was terribly thirsty but it didn't occur to him to call for England or try to get up. He simply lay and looked up at the white ceiling for a while, not even working to connect the spiderweb of cracks he'd never noticed before. He whimpered quietly as the fractured lines suddenly descended from the abstract white and embedded inside him, splintered his senses and dragged him down into the memory of some ageless, nameless battle with France again.

The third time America awoke, he felt very odd. Fragments of England's history shimmered inside his skull, one occasionally flashing brighter than all the others as though the sun shining on coins thrown to the bottom of a fountain, causing them to glint one by one. It made his head ache terribly; stimulus was coming in through the wrong end and making a kaleidoscope of his thoughts. He shifted onto his side towards the dresser, his whole body feeling heavy and his muscles wailing in protest; the cloth fell off his forehead again, landing at his shoulder. England was changing at the dresser mirror, replacing the comfortable clothes he had no doubt put on when he had first gotten up with a brand new British Army regulation uniform.

"Are... we at war?" America asked; he all but croaked it, his throat being so dry.

England turned to him; his jacket was still unbuttoned and his green tie was loose around his crisp starched collar.

"You sound thirsty," was the first thing he said. "I'll fetch you some water."

He went bustling out of the room, knotting his tie as he went; America noticed the dodged question but was too parched to care at that exact moment. He closed his eyes again tiredly, waiting for England to come back and watching the shards of memories swell and burst against the backs of his eyelids like a slow viscous boil of shells and sickness and sinking ships.

"Here." England was back before America had even really acknowledged he was gone. "Sit up, now; you won't be able to drink it otherwise."

England helped America to sit up, noticed the quiet moan and compensated for the vertigo by propping up his pillows for him. Once upright, the glass was delightfully cold in his hands and colder still in his mouth; it cut an icy swatch down his middle as he drank it all down without pausing for breath, giving a gasp as he drained the last of it and pressed the empty glass against his burning forehead.

"Is that better or would you like more?" England asked, buttoning his jacket and sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I'm good for now, Mommy Hen," America breathed with a faint grin, putting the glass down on the bedside table. "Thanks."

England leaned forwards and pressed a hand to America's forehead.

"You're very hot," he muttered. "How do you feel?"

"Rotten," America admitted. "Your history ain't agreeing well with me at all."

"Well, even so, perhaps it will fix your appalling grammar," England replied, standing again. "Come on, I think you ought to lie back down. I'll fetch you some more water and another cloth for your head."

"You didn't answer my question," America said, resisting England's hand on his shoulder; he reached up and tugged at England's uniform sleeve. "You're dressed up to the nines. We're at war, right?"

"Not quite yet," England replied. "That is, France and I have yet to declare war. But it has happened – Germany has breached our ultimatum and invaded Poland's house and taken it under his rule, aided by Russia and accompanied, it seems, by Prussia and Italy."

"Did France call to tell you that?"

"Mm. News travels fast on the continent." England pushed more firmly at America. "Lie down now, love. You're exhausted. I doubt my history has finished with you yet."

"How much longer is this going to take?" America groaned, settling again.

"I don't know," England replied. "I've never done this before." He leaned down kissed America on the forehead. "You rest and I'll get you some more water."

"Ugh, I would be your experiment," America grumbled, watch England gather the cloth and the glass and his belt, which had been lying at the foot of the bed, and leave the room again.

He walked differently to how he had last night – when he had been barefoot, padding quietly about his house with a gentleness, an ease, born of peacetime. He was different when in uniform. Most nations were, admittedly, but England particularly so, as though that uniform brought out an odd savagery in him that he only barely concealed behind the straight posture and the salute and the hard tap of his boots – the strapping of a gentleman manufactured to guise the base bloodthirstiness at his core. England would never admit it but he liked war – America knew he did, he could feel it now as England's historical memories and wounds and emotions swam within him (and it hardly needed to be admitted to, after all, when England was in uniform already even though he had said himself that they actually weren't at war "quite yet").

The war, and the memories, were both transforming the geometric shapes of himself and England; they somehow fit more closely together now having awoken from the same mold of impending or remembered violence. England shifted easily into the role, simply changed his clothes and the persona followed. It wasn't as effortless for America; he was still suffering from his own metamorphoses and he wasn't convinced if the change was inevitable as England seemed to think it was.

America looked about for a clock, finding one at England's side of the bed; he rolled closer to it so that he wouldn't have to squint and checked the time. It was long past noon – lunchtime – but he found that he wasn't hungry even though he had missed breakfast too. He didn't want to stay in bed all day, really, but he also didn't have either the will or the strength to push himself up and get out of bed. He was still dreadfully hot but, despite that, he was also starting to shiver again and he huddled down under the covers even though the claustrophobic heat was torture. In the dark cave of the covers, the memories burned brighter still like flickering stars in his mind, clashing and clinking like pebbles on the shore. He curled up very tight, trying to close into himself to shut them out, to make them stop for just a moment so that he could have his body all to himself again—

"America." He felt England nudge him through the covers. "Don't do that, you're not a child." He heard the taunting clink of the glass being set down again. "Come now, I have a fresh cloth for you to cool you down."

Well, that was tempting – as was the glass of water. America ventured out from under the covers again and England descended upon him, making him lie down properly and tucking him in.

"Thanks, mommy," America said, patting the cold cloth on his forehead – it soothed his headache quite a bit and made it easier to settle.

"If you must insist on referring to me by those idiotic maternal nicknames because I am kind enough to take care of you, can't you at least call me 'mummy'?" England sighed.

"Nope. A mummy is how Egypt used to preserve his dead, right? Silly England."

"Of course," England replied distractedly, straightening again. "Silly me."

It was such a peculiarity to be nursed by someone wearing a full army uniform; America could smell the leather and starch and brand new coarse cloth when England leaned close to him. It made him smell different to how he had last night, of course – the uniform made everything different, how he looked, how he felt, how he held himself. It made America want to reach for him, to grab him to make sure that he was really still there under the soldier's scar, because it reminded him of back then, back when he had been in blue and England had been in red and he hadn't thought about anything other than the freedom he had so desperately wanted, had come to acknowledge England only as a uniform, that hateful red like a drop of blood that wouldn't be scrubbed away; he had only remembered that England was England, his England, under the unscrubbable red when he had sobbed in front of him—

Yes, it had been unwashable, he had scrubbed and scrubbed like Lady Macbeth, out, out damn spot out, and still it was on his hands and on his back; of course, he remembered back in the court when Shakespeare had first produced that play, how grimly satisfying it had been to his bloodthirsty masses—

America sat bolt upright with a gasp, followed by a swoon as his body punished him for moving too fast. England, who was over at the wardrobe hanging something up over the back of the door, turned to him; America hadn't even noticed him leave the bedside.

"What's wrong?" England asked, frowning at him.

"N-nothing." America shook his head and sank back to the bed again, readjusting his cloth. "Nothing. I'm fine."

England gave a snort.

"You're bound to see things that you don't like," he said, turning back to his task. "Of my memories, I mean to say."

America shivered miserably, feeling the tendrils of memories clinging to him but dissolving away whenever he focused too closely on one. It felt like he was trying to decipher someone else's dreams while waking up every few minutes.

"I didn't think they would start hacking into mine, though," he replied. "I was thinking about… well, about back then, you know, and I thought it was my memory of it but… I guess it wasn't. I started remembering about Shakespeare."

"That would be one of mine," England sighed.

America looked at him; or at his back, at least. Green now, of course, not red, the new leather of his officer's belt shining as he moved; the whole thing fitted him very nicely, too nicely, as though it was the only thing he was truly meant to wear.

"What are you doing?" America asked, reaching for his water to take a cleansing sip.

"Sorting out your uniform." England stepped back from it to show it to its owner; it was hung perfectly on the hanger, clean and new and colored like sand. "I had it sent for. It's very like your other one from the Great War. What do you think?"

"It's lovely," America said flatly, not bothering to put on his glasses. "Will you put my hair in pigtails too, mommy?"

"Don't get smart with me. This is happening whether you like it or not."

"You like it," America said in a low voice.

"No I don't. I merely knew that it was going to come to this." England looked at him again. "I wonder if you'll be well enough to go to France's tonight."

America blinked.

"Why would we be going to France's?"

"Oh, it was already arranged – it's just that Germany's actions have made this meeting rather more urgent. Originally it was to be a discussion about tactics and formations should it come to this. Now that it has, of course, we will be drawing up plans for our primary mobilizations. Ah, and writing our war declarations, of course."

"To go into effect immediately?"

"Well, either tomorrow or the day after if Germany does not respond to our demands that he retreat immediately from Poland's territory. France issued that this morning on behalf of the both of us."

"So where does that leave me?"

"Declaring war on him and Russia, I should think," England said curtly. "Should they prove to be stubborn, anyway." He narrowed his eyes at America. "That is what you promised me, after all – that you weren't going to wait until the last minute this time."

"I know, I know," America sighed. "And I'm not going to go back on my word, it's just…"

"It's just what?" England left America's uniform and came back over to the bed.

"It's just, well… you." America glanced up at him briefly before averting his eyes again. "You go kind of… weird when there's a war. Sort of scarily enjoying it too much, like… like you get off on it or something."

Contrary to the reaction America had been expecting, England simply grinned at him.

"Do you not want to encourage me?" he teased. "Well, now you share all my sick little pleasures."

"Don't," America bit out, feeling the memories flare a bit under his eerie smile. "I don't want to be like you no matter how much I love you."

"Ah, we're a very different breed in Europe, aren't we?"

"Yeah, you are."

"Well, I promise not to masturbate over any dismembered corpses cut to pieces by glorious war."

America suddenly felt rather sick.

"That is disgusting!" he cried, pulling the covers over his head. "Shut up!"

"Did you not think I had it in me to say something like that?" England laughed. "You know, every now and then I like to rip off that gentleman's mask and fucking breathe, America."

"Oh, peace makes you suffocate?" America turned over under the sheets, putting his back to England even though he couldn't see him. "I'm not surprised. You're acting all ticked off about this Germany thing but I'll bet secretly you're actually pretty happy."

"Now don't be unfair," England chided – although he didn't sound terribly offended. He took hold of the covers and peeled them back; America glared up at him and then pointedly looked away. "I say, look here, you; you're sick, you're simply—"

"You're sick," America retorted.

"Now you're just being spiteful for the sake of it. Lie down properly and get some rest – I daresay you're simply cranky because you're feeling somewhat under the weather. It's very childish of you, honestly."

America straightened himself up yet again, huffing as he did so; England fixed the cloth at his forehead and then trailed his hand down America's right arm, fingertips coming to rest at the little roll of cotton padding taped over where the needle had gone into his vein the night before. He took hold of the end of the tape, appearing to be about to pull it off, and America pulled his arm away.

"I want to keep it on the stem the bleeding," he said.

"The bleeding will have stopped by now."

"Just in case."

"Then at least let me replace it with a clean one." England reached for his arm again and America lashed out with his left and grabbed England's wrist, stopping him.

A very peculiar feeling jolted through him as his hand made contact with England; a strange cold draining feeling that washed right through him, fizzling at every nerve ending. Every fractured memory that had been jostling in his brain suddenly melted into a clear liquid understanding like ice beneath the sun, images and soundbites and shards of emotion condensing into… figures, calculations, knowledge. He closed his hand around England's wrist and suddenly knew him as well, as intimately, as he knew himself. He knew where every single one of his scars was and where it had come from, he knew which parts of his body corresponded to which parts of his land, he knew everything as though his mind had been completely replaced with England's.

England pulled and twisted, trying to haul his wrist back; America gave a sudden yank on him and sent him sprawling onto the bed, rolling with him so that they tumbled a few times until they stilled in a tangled heap with America – sweating and shivering and shuddering in only his boxers – on top, still clinging grim-death to England's wrist.

"America, I'm not playing these silly games with you," England said coldly, pushing at America's shoulders. "You're unwell and you need to rest. Get off me at once."

"Don't." America batted his hand away. "Let me touch you. I just… I understood something there…"

England exhaled deeply through his nose but fell still on the bed, lying unresponsively like a ragdoll with only his jade eyes flickering after America's every motion. America finally let go of England's wrist in favor of running both hands over him, eerily aware that it felt like he was hovering over a mirror as his mind was merged with the man beneath him. His touch was very light and fleeting, skating over the shape of him and muttering to himself as though truly working out some kind of complex calculation – the sum of England, every bit of him fitting together like a jigsaw to make him what he was, weird or disgusting or sick or whatever else America chose to call him.

Heart, well, that was London, of course; his veins were the Thames and his arteries the Tyne; his mouth was Canterbury, where Chaucer had first written about in primitive Middle English; his eyes were York and Plymouth, never satisfied with what was right in front of them and constantly seeking new places to bear their names (places in America); his spine was Stratford-Upon-Avon, home to his greatest bard, his most perfect claim to fame that nobody could deny him even if they despised all he stood for; his shoulders and the sharp blades of them were Scotland, the dip of his collarbone Loch Ness; his left arm was Wales, his fingertips a language so old it was almost out of his reach and on the lines of his palm the stories of King Arthur and the crimson dragon in the coil of his muscles; there were traces of Ireland in his right arm, the twisted scars of Belfast at his elbow; his ribs were his industrialization, the bridges built from his birth; his hips Gloucestershire and his belly the Midlands and his navel the circle of Stonehenge; his thighs Devon and Cornwall; one foot Dover and the other Land's End.

It was all hidden, of course; hidden by that uniform but America didn't need to be able to touch his bare skin to know where things were, to feel the flashes of his scars prickle upon his own skin like phantom sympathies. Washington D.C. pulsed within his own chest as London slammed away under his hands (his hands were Virginia and Massachusetts, spreading and reaching West and skyward) and he traded battle-scar for battle-scar, national hero for national hero, writer for writer, the Alamo for the Hundred Years War and Washington for Wellington and Hawthorne for Dickens.

America gave a sigh and settled on top of England, burying his face against his neck and feeling very close and connected and comfortable with him. The memories had finally ceased to be an outside force attacking his psyche and instead they settled into immunity as long as he and England were together, the sickness held at bay by contact with its originator, history soothed by the touch of its motherland.

"What's the matter?" England asked quietly, reaching up to stroke his hair.

"Nothing," America replied. "Everything." He paused. "Nothing."

"It can't be both."

"It's stupid."

"Try me."

"You'll laugh. You'll tell me off. You'll say I have a one-track mind."

"Sex?"

"More than that," America insisted. "I want you inside me."

"I am inside you," England said gently. "Far deeper than ever before – in every pore and cell and molecule of your body. I'm in your blood and your bones and your brain. You have let me in far more intimately than ever before. There will be no escaping me now that I'm within your heart, now that our rivers have merged and our histories have stitched themselves together in your mind. Sex is nothing compared to what I did to you last night."

"It isn't that. I don't care how it feels. I don't care if you hurt me – if you don't caress me, if you don't tell me you love me. I just want you as close as you can be to me because it's all so… everything you gave me just seems so much clearer when I touch you—"

"Do you think you're going to get some sort of epiphany, America?" England asked lazily, running his fingertips down America's bare spine.

"Is it too much to ask?"

"No – but I thought I was weird and disgusting and sick?"

"You are." America kissed England just under his ear, letting his heat soak through before lathing the skin with his tongue. He gave his ear a quick nip before pulling back. "You think I can't fucking feel it? I've had to take to my bed because I let you put your filthy blood inside me – but I knew it. I knew it before and it's never stopped me from letting you fuck me, has it?"

"Oh, you do like to live dangerously, don't you?" England mocked, letting his hand trail further down to cup and squeeze America's ass. "Your recklessness rather shocks me. I'm disease-ridden too, you know."

"Hell, yeah, you are," America agreed, weight resting on his elbows on either side of England's head so that they were tauntingly close. "You've got that awful European disease – war."

"Could be worse," England replied blandly, unbuckling his belt. "Could be syphilis."

"You call that the French Disease," America rattled off, the knowledge coming to his tongue without him having to think; aware of England fidgeting about underneath him with brand-new buckles and zips.

"Very good. Of course, he's where all diseases come from."

"That isn't fair."

"But it's true. He gave you the disease called Revolution." England reached up and took hold of the waistband of America's underwear, beginning to slip them down. "The fever spiked in you first but you got it from him. Why, it was barely a decade before he was guillotining his own monarchs – and Russia was his ally at the time he got the idea to gun down his."

"You can't blame France for everything." America obediently twisted his ankles, one at a time, out of his underwear at England's silent insistence, watching it go sailing to the floor; leaving him completely naked with all of his scars on show, both his own real ones and England's imagined ones. The sweat on his hot skin made him shiver, goosebumps prickling up his arms. He watched as England took a drizzle of oil in his palm, the sight of it making the fever gather and pool between his legs in excitement. "You can't just say whatever you—"

"Yes I can. Didn't I tell you last night?" England took America's hips and tilted them, lowered them, positioning him with a militaristic preciseness. They both moved with impatience, preparing for yet another connection on top of the one already circulating through them. "History is written by the victors. In my position, with my power, I can make up any lies I want."

"That doesn't make them true," America argued, putting his hands on England's chest to brace himself as England did the lining-up as though he was arranging a battle-front – practiced, precise but sort of uninterested, doing it so efficiently only because it was trained into him so exactly.

England shot him a very strange smile when he was satisfied.

"But it makes them matter," he said.

He pushed upwards; there was a moment of resistance and America bit his lip and adjusted his position, angling his hips differently because England had gotten it fractionally wrong, and then all of England was inside him in a sudden hard hot rush. America caught his breath and there was a jolt downwards as his weight pushed England back down to the bed, feeling him twist beneath him as they made full contact – he wasn't able to do much else, though, America too heavy for him to lift on the arching of his hips.

"Sorry," America said a low voice, panting. "Am I crushing you?"

England threw his arm over his eyes, breathing deeply himself, America feeling the clench of his stomach muscles every time he exhaled.

"Not the way my history is crushing you," he replied quietly.

America could only nod, already feeling a bead of sweat slide down his temple and over his cheek; there was a breathless burning in his veins even as the sensation of frost cracking crawled over his flesh, connecting every nerve ending with a jolt of electricity so that he almost felt them light up. His ghost scars seared and his skin was shockingly sensitive, the shift of England's coarse uniform and leather straps and cold buckles scraping and bursting against his observation, and he felt England inside him but also didn't – as though they had merged and become one, their bodies indistinguishable from one another. He saw England move underneath him but didn't feel it, each thrust resonating in his brain instead of his balls, bringing color and light and scent and taste and memory to each borrowed image, to each stolen experience. He heard the clash of armor and the roar of cannons; he smelt the heady salt of the sea and the bitterness of gunpowder, tasted blood and regulation rum, felt bullets burn flesh and the swing of a sword at his neck and suddenly the world flipped over and over as he rolled away—

America leaned back with another gasp, clapping a hand protectively against his own throat; he stared down at England in bewilderment, stilling completely but for the heaving of his chest.

"You've had your head cut off," he rushed out, still dizzy from the tumble; he looked at England's neck – it was the one place he didn't seem to have a scar.

England lifted his arm from his face and tilted his head as he looked up at America, his eyes very bright and green and interested.

"Have I?" he asked lazily, rotating his hips to continue the motion. America ignored it and continued on, too horrified by what he had just felt to be distracted.

"It's… it's in your memories, I just saw it – I just felt it!"

"That doesn't mean it happened."

"Why the fuck would you remember something that didn't happen?" America demanded, still not taking his hand from his own throat; he could still feel the echo of the ache and wondered who had done it.

"Who is to say that I would remember something correctly even if it did happen?" England countered. "History is full of lies."

"Don't talk all cryptic!" America snapped, leaning over him. "You're just avoiding the question."

"No I'm not. Whether it happened or not is really neither here nor there – the fact is, America, that even if I were to address the issue less cryptically, you probably still wouldn't understand."

"What wouldn't I understand?" America bit out. "I'm young but I'm not that young—"

"I'm not disputing the fact that you have history of your own – although that is exactly the point I am trying to make. History can be disputed."

"Not if it's true," America insisted. "You can't just make stuff up and say it's history but if it really happened then there's no denying its historical worth."

"I beg to differ." England reached for America's cock and wrapped his hand around it, making him keen through his teeth at the sensation of it. "Take, for example, this: In the Beginning, God created Heaven and Earth. Would you call that a historical fact?"

"N-no, because…" America bit his bottom lip, trying not to rock too much into England's touch – to play into his hands, so to speak. "B-because that's… it's not… not true."

"Says who? You?" England propped himself up on one elbow, sliding his fingers firmly up and down America's length, tracing the vein on the underside with his nails and pressing his fingertips against the root of it. "Does that make it false – just because you said so?"

"W-we know better than th-that now," America hissed. "D-don't be so… goddamn difficult, England, you know as… as well a-as I do that God d-didn't create the world in… in seven days!"

"I don't know anything of sort," England countered. "I just don't believe it."

"Th-that's the same!"

"No it isn't – and me simply not believing it doesn't make it false. The fact is that several people that we know well would dispute with you that it is perfectly true. Roman Catholics, you see: Italy, Romano, Spain, perhaps even France…"

"It's Medieval thinking!" America burst out, aware that he was making England's hand very wet; he could barely breathe, his temperature spiking higher and higher with every fleeting touch of England's fingers, pushing and pressing him closer to a dry desperate finish.

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere," England hummed in agreement. "It's perfectly Medieval – and, in the Medieval times, I too would have said that it was a historical fact. In fact, I'd have had you burnt at the stake as a heretic for daring to say otherwise. Whether I was wrong then and right now – or right then and wrong now – is of no consequence. The important thing to acknowledge is that my perception of what is true has changed; and the fact that it changed at all is proof that history cannot be trusted."

England swiped his thumb over the head of America's dick with a sudden preciseness while simultaneously jerking his hips up and America came in his hand with a breathy cry, shuddering and slumping forwards and only stopping himself from collapsing completely by clutching at England's uniform lapels. He lifted his head, his gold hair hanging in sweat-soaked strands in front of his eyes, obscuring his sight even more than his usual shortsightedness; still, he couldn't fail to notice England licking his hand clean, doing so with the precision of a cat so that he lapped up every last drop.

Suddenly feeling very empty, even though England was still in him, America watched him do it, fighting to get his breath back.

"So… so you think… you can rewrite things and… and make up lies to cover up the truth and say things happened when they didn't… and say things didn't happen when they did?" he asked in a low voice.

"Well, that's history. That's how it works."

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is. I doubt King Arthur fought with a sword given to him by a lady who lived in a lake but history says he did so people believe it, no matter how improbable. There's no reason it can't work the other way around, you know." England sat up and leaned towards him, smirking. "You didn't just come."

America flushed hotly, shifting so he was cradled in England's lap, still connected to him.

"Yes I did," he said. "I came in your hand."

England held up the hand in question – which was, of course, completely clean.

"Prove it," he replied.

"I… I just saw you lick it off!" America snapped.

England laughed and sank back to the bed again, pitching America forward to follow the movement.

"But maybe I don't believe you, you see?" he sighed, getting comfortable. "Bloody bloody history. That's the trouble. It's all lies – even the truth. Only perception, and the power to enforce one perception over another, makes any of it worth a thing."

America shifted; England wasn't moving at all, making no effort to do anything about his own finish, apparently satisfied with what he'd achieved already.

"Then why do we believe it?" America asked quietly, looking at England's neck again – where he may or may not have been beheaded.

England patted America's thigh.

"We don't," he answered, "do we?"

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"No matter what you promised your little friend," Russia drawled, "this is very much about revenge, is it not?"

He pushed the glass across Poland's kitchen table towards Germany; it was just the two of them for now. It was Prussia's turn to guard the door of Poland's bedroom and, having been sent in that direction by Germany ten minutes ago, had called for Italy to join him to "keep him company". Italy, naïvely thinking that Prussia really did want his company and not simply someone to tease and harass to ease his boredom whilst sitting outside Poland's door, had gone trotting after him, chattering away happily about an art museum he had once visited with his brother and Spain.

"You're suggesting that I lied to Italy?" Germany replied stiffly, taking the glass of vodka and holding it in tense hands.

"Not lied," Russia said, taking a deep swig straight from the bottle. "Evaded. Embellished. Would those be the right words? Forgive me – my German is poor."

"Your German is perfectly acceptable," Germany said, looking down at the clear liquid flashing in Poland's crystal glass.

"Then I am correct?"

"Not exactly. I do want to change things." Germany propped up his chin on his hand. "I can't help but feeling that things would be better if everyone was united beneath one flag, beneath one ideology – why not mine? I am calm, hard-working and industrious. I am not frivolous like Spain or flamboyant like France or arrogant like England. I have annexed Austria but he does not seem to be particularly angry about it – he and I are close in our ways of thinking, after all, and I have come to conclude that he thinks that it would be better for him if he were to be under my flag, too. I am under the impression that Hungary feels the same way. England gave me Czechoslovakia to try and head off my indignation but I will not be bought out by either him or France, not after the humiliation they have put me through." Germany clenched his fists. "They specifically designed the Treaty of Versailles to cripple me, thinking I was an idiot who could be told that it was for my own benefit. I have worked hard to get myself out of debt, to make myself great again. If everyone worked as hard as I, even against the odds as I did, the world would be a better place. I despise France and England for what they did to me in 1919 but I feel that I have learned many lessons from the hardships that came with the punishment they gave me. I should be the one to light the world's way into a new era."

Russia gave an interested nod.

"And what about the little one?" he asked.

"Italy?" Germany gave a shrug. "He is very attached to me. I captured him during the Great War and he declared himself my friend and ally. There is… more to it than that but, for the most part, that is the sum of our relationship."

"He is idealistic."

"Yes, he is."

"He reminds me very much of America," Russia went on.

Germany nodded, choosing his words carefully.

"I suppose I can see the resemblance in the personality, at least," he agreed. "Ideology, not so much. America is Capitalist; Italy is Fascist. Italy is far more compatible with my way of thinking than America would ever be."

"I agree," Russia said, "for I, too, will never be great friends with America. His way of thinking combats mine at every turn."

"He is like England in his way of thinking," Germany concurred, feeling a bit more comfortable after Russia's admission. "I feel, even, that my dislike of him is just an echo of my dislike of England."

"But yet you, too, are like England." Russia took another mouthful of vodka. "It is as Poland says. England is an Empire – he thinks as one, he behaves as one. However you dress up your desire to create this new world of your grand design, in the end your behavior mirrors England – who, too, thought that his way of thinking was so wonderful and so correct that it should be impressed on others."

"There were riches on the cards, too, where England was concerned." Germany pointed out, already having gone over these arguments countless times in his head.

"And that does not interest you?"

"Not particularly," Germany replied honestly. "I simply want to give the world the gift of what I have learned from hardship. If everyone kicks and screams as Poland did, then the road will be long and difficult and bloody – but I am willing to see it through to the end."

"And perhaps some subjugation of your enemies would not hurt either," Russia said with a sickly smile.

Germany gave a snort and finally threw back a mouthful of vodka, shuddering as it went searing down his throat. He could hold his liquor with the best of them but the sterile refined proof was such a strange contrast to his flavorfully earthy beer.

"I can't be the only one who wants to slap France or knock America off his perch before he manages to get airborne or have that bastard British Empire on his knees for once," he said, exhaling the words along with the fumes of alcohol.

Russia's smile sweetened further.

"Of course not," he agreed. "To crush America, to feel his bones cracking and splintering beneath my foot, would be most satisfying."

"I had no idea you hated him that much," Germany muttered, tracing the rim of his cup with one gloved finger.

"Oh," Russia said, looking up at the ceiling, "it is simply as I say: America and I will never be friends."

"And England? I know you and he have never gotten along particularly well either."

"Ah, yes. Do you know what I would like to do to England? Imagine getting your hands beneath someone's collarbone and taking hold of it and then pulling so that you tore the entire ribcage apart and open. I'd cut out his organs one by one while he begged for mercy and position them all around him like his territories and colonies and then I'd leave him to bleed out and die all alone."

Germany looked at him briefly.

"I doubt it would kill him," he said at length.

Russia beamed.

"Probably not," he agreed. "I'd like to do it anyway, though – wouldn't you?"

—

"Do you really believe that stuff?" Prussia asked, leaning over Italy's shoulder and looking down at the pages of his beloved Italian Bible, worn and frayed to a comforting softness around the edges.

"Of course." Italy blinked up at him. "Don't you?"

Prussia snorted, half-laughing at the ridiculous notion.

"Of course not," he said, looking away again. "It's all nonsense, stupid."

"I'm sad that you think that," Italy said forlornly. "Germany always likes it when I read to him. He likes Genesis and the stories about when the world was new. He said he wants to create a world like that – new and clean and purged where we can all live together happily."

Prussia put his hands up behind his head and leaned back against Poland's locked door.

"Huh, West thinks he's God now, does he?" He rolled his eyes. "Still, I'm not surprised he spun you that – cashing in on you believing that some guy with a beard created a world for us all to frolic and prance in while picking wildflowers."

Italy clutched his Bible to his chest.

"God did create the world," he said, his voice oddly fierce. "Big Brother Spain says so and so does the Bible – and Germany is going to remake the world just like it and it'll be perfect!"

Italy got up and stalked away: Prussia had forgotten the fiery temperament, mostly because Italy was usually too oblivious to realize that he was being insulted. Still, there it was. Prussia was almost impressed that he'd managed to piss Italy off – Romano he wasn't, that was for sure…

"God created a perfect world?" Prussia muttered, lying down in the hall and kicking Poland's door a few times for good measure. "Yeah, more like he coughed up a diseased lung – just like West is going to, no doubt."

"Then, like, why are you even here?" Poland asked through the door; he had given up on screaming and yelling and kicking and banging and was now just leaning against the other side of the door, tired and worn down.

"Because," Prussia began irritably; he paused, considering the weight of his words.

Oh, the hell with it, he thought bitterly.

"Because," he said, "sticking close to remind him to write me into history is the only way I'll survive." He gave a sigh and closed his crimson eyes. "Last time around I wasn't so lucky."

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RobinRocks AN: …So let's just say that some of the players in this know a little more than others.

On religion: So we thought it would be interesting to explore the different religious values of some of the countries in this fic. It sort of arranges itself in three tiers: The top band would be the likes of Italy/Romano and Spain (very Catholic countries even today); the middle band would be England, America and France, all of which consider themselves to be "Christian" countries but do not have religion as deeply steeped into their national identity in the 20th Century; the bottom band is Germany and Prussia and probably countries like Austria, etc., all of which have religious pasts but with religion itself becoming rather left behind and not factoring much in cultural identity in the 20th Century.

We're still trying to work out where Russia fits into all this. It's not that religion is a massively big deal in this fanfic – this chapter is probably the most that it will be dealt with, at least for a while – but that fact that different beliefs can cause conflict between characters that represent entire nations/countries was something we felt should be addressed. As England says, too, religious belief and practice is something that alters with time; Medieval Britain, for example, was VERY Christian. Mary I, known as Bloody Mary, got her name from burning Protestants charged with heresy against the church – however, from the reign of Elizabeth I, Britain has always been Protestant and we haven't burnt anybody at the stake for the wrong religious beliefs for quite a few centuries!

As for America, his denouncing the story of Genesis as truth wasn't him saying that he didn't believe in God, only that he didn't believe that the world was created in seven days. Regardless of your own beliefs, it seemed wrong to me (as I said in my argument to Narroch regarding this) that America would be atheist given that some American coins have 'In God We Trust' written on them and American politicians often end their speeches with "God Bless America". (And as an aside, a piece of official artwork appearing in the published Hetalia manga does actually show America wearing a cross around his neck. Not that that really means anything in this day and age, when the cross has become a £4/$8 trinket sold in Claire's Accessories, but my point stands even so…)

Speaking of all this, 'Am anfang schuf Gott Himmel und Erde' is, of course, the German for 'In the beginning, God created Heaven and Earth'. ^^

Eh, I think that is it. Narroch wanted to add ANs but admitted that all she wanted to do was make fun of me, so…

Ladies and gentlemen, it is officially TEN DAYS to Halloween! ^^ Ah, how I love Halloween. As usual, I have a little something special planned for the holiday – this year, too, Narroch and I will be at YaoiCon in San Francisco over Halloween weekend! Anyone else going? =)

Well, in advance, Happy Halloween! Hope you all enjoyed our second chapter! We're getting to the disappearing-from-history thing promised in the summary, don't worry…

RobinRocks and Narroch

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