Haha, since I originally posted this for last Fourth of July I figured I should probably finish it before next week. XD

idek what this is anymore. It's a just a mess. But then maybe that's all it can be.

Align

V

Telephone.

"It's the middle of the goddamn night," America moans, pulling the covers over his head. His eyes burn beneath them. He isn't tired. He's wide awake and has been for days.

England reaches over him and drags the phone from its cradle. "What now?" he demands groggily. "The blasted thing's done, isn't it...?"

A long, heavy pause, the voice at the other end echoing at the edges. England sits bolt upright.

"What?" He drags a hand through his hair. "Are you quite...? Y-of course I'm not calling you a liar, for Christ's sake... Yes, yes, I... alright, we'll be there as soon as possible." He slams down the phone and scrambles out of bed, rummaging for his clothes.

"Who was it?" America asks lazily, not turning over.

"France." England gives him a shove. "Get up."

"What? Why?"

"Because your chum Russia has done something very stupid indeed."

"Oh yeah?" His interest is admittedly piqued. He rolls over and props his cheek on his fist, watching England dress. "Like what?"

"Bloody eaten Germany, by the sounds of it. I can't quite... well, France wasn't making much sense, he sounded rather hysterical, but that seems to be about the gist of it–"

"Well, yeah, I'm sure he's upset," America says lazily. "Usually you guys eat Germany, right?"

"Shut up. This is serious."

"I'm being serious."

"You're not. You're being a facetious little prick." England seizes up America's bomber jacket and throws it at his head. "Get up."

"Why should I? What's it got to do with me?"

"You and I were supposed to take Berlin, that's what. We miscalculated."

America shrugs. "Big deal. Russia's on our side, right? What difference does it make in the end?"

"America, he bloody well ate him!"

"But that's what you guys were gonna do, right?" America grins. "Ohh, wait, I get it now. It's okay for you and France to do it, yeah, but Russia–"

"Russia is dangerous. He can't be allowed to have that sort of power."

"I'm sure a lot of people said the same about you back in the day, Mr British Empire."

"I'm sure they did."

"So there you go. Get over it." America flops back against the pillow, pulling his jacket over his head. "Jeez, I thought I was a sore loser..."

"This isn't about winning or losing."

"Then what is it about, England?"

No answer. After a moment, America lifts the edge of his jacket to peek out at him, watching him knot his tie. "Hey. England."

"I heard you, brat."

"Then how come you didn't answer?"

"Because I'm not going to satisfy you with a reply. Now get up before I slap you in the balls."

"Yeah, whatever." America yawns. "You're all talk."

"Oh, is that right?" England, fully-dressed, folds his arms. His green eyes gleam. "All bark and no bite?"

America glowers at him, silenced.

"Get up," England says coldly. "I'm not going to tell you again." He turns away. "I'm going to have the car sent round. I expect you downstairs in five minutes."

He stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind him. America flips his middle finger at his retreating back, although he's glad that he doesn't see it. He knows he's being childish – it's half an act, he admits it. He just can't give England the pleasure of seeing him take this seriously, not now, when his skin prickles and his bones ache. He could do with sleep, a cup of black coffee, England gasping beneath him.

Anything, anything, so he doesn't have to think.

They were at the outskirts of Berlin, scattered in ribcage hotels and bombed-out buildings, but it wasn't enough. Encircled on all sides by eyes, Russia didn't care. He seemed glad of the audience.

"There's barely anything left of either of them," England says faintly, letting the bloodied sheet drop. He looks towards France. "This isn't... I mean, it's not like 1919—"

"Isn't it?" America interjects loudly. "Looks about the same to me."

"Shut up, Amérique," France growls. "You are of no help."

"I didn't come here to help." America steps past them, past the remains of Germany and Prussia hastily thrown over with torn bedsheets. "I'm done with helping. You guys can clean this mess up yourselves."

France opens his mouth, his face white with fury, but England puts a hand to his arm. "Pay him no mind. We have other concerns. Where is Russia now?"

"I do not know." France doesn't take his eyes off America. "Perhaps Amérique does?"

"I thought you wanted me to shut up?"

"I trust even a simpleton like you can tell the difference between something of importance and an unwarranted opinion." France's voice is deadly. "Or has Angleterre taught you that badly?"

America pauses for a moment, looking at England, waiting for him to wash his hands of him with something like 'It's not my fault he turned out like this'. England, however, says nothing at all: a worse betrayal still, perhaps.

"I don't know where Russia is," America concedes at last. "I haven't been in contact with him. The last I saw of him was on VE Day."

France doesn't look like he really believes him but he gives a sharp nod. "Very well. We must assume he has fled."

"I'm concerned about Poland," England says. "I wouldn't put it past Russia to devour him as well."

"That'd be unfortunate, huh?" America says, putting his hands in his pockets. "After you started the war over him an' all."

"It would be most unfortunate, yes," England agrees blandly, not looking at him.

"Then who knows?" America goes on, taking out his cigarettes. "Maybe you next, France? Then you, England? Who knows where he'll stop?"

"Perhaps so." England doesn't sound terribly interested, looking to France. "This is going to make things difficult in a lot of camps. Germany is bad enough but Prussia too..."

When France replies, it's in French: a rude and deliberate excluding of America from the conversation. America lights his cigarette, watching England with interest, half-amused when he gives in and dusts off his rusty French. It's very unlike him to be bullied into speaking another language even though America knows he's fluent in at least four – so the truth is that he doesn't want America listening in, either. America wouldn't mind so much if he hadn't been dragged out of bed for this. He's got no idea what they're trying to shock into him.

He goes outside to enjoy his cigarette in peace, leaning against the crumbling wall. A headless stone eagle, scuffed with bullet wounds, reposes at his elbow. This is a place on the outskirts of Berlin where the tall black forest encroaches, a sinister reminder of the inpermanence of men. This is the dwelling of wolves and monsters, all those that devour, gobble up, leave no trace. Men, he thinks. They are afraid of disappearing – so they kill and torture and conquer in the hope that history, at least, will remember their name.

And in my name men wage war

He stamps out his cigarette and draws his bomber jacket around himself as he goes towards the forest. It begins abruptly, quickly densening into a wild mass of black naked branches. There is no clear path through so when he steps in, he stumbles through a maze of roots and low-hanging boughs, weaving his way deeper into the forest's dark heart.

His heart quickens, his jaw aches, he can feel his spine stretching against his skin. This is fear – a fear that he knows well. This is the primitive ignorance of living in untamed lands, a hostile wilderness ever at your doorstep. The core of his heart is colonial: he is moulded out of this human terror, not knowing if you'll see the morning. These fools, English, Dutch, German, Spanish, coming to their deaths on faraway shores. He thinks of Roanoke, swallowed up without a trace.

This is the fear of knowing.

Still. Humans. They get eaten all the time. They're stupid bags of flesh and bone and they're always somewhere they shouldn't be.

He comes to a clearing and stops running. Here, in the dry silvery circle, dead leaves underfoot, his breath rises on the night air. This place must be sacred or haunted; a battleground, the devil's footprint, for nothing dares grow. He shrugs off his bomber jacket, lets it drop. He rolls up his sleeves, loosens his tie. He wants to take off his belt, break every zip, tear off every last button. He's never felt so crammed into this body in all his life.

"America."

He whirls at his name, expecting England, expecting France, god, they can't leave him be for five minutes–

It's Russia. He looks calm – not the sadistic sort but more like he feels that he's safe, that he's run far enough. He still has blood on his mouth.

America's fists unclench. "So you did it," he says.

"Da. I don't know what came over me but I feel much better now." Russia takes a step towards him but America puts out his hands.

"Don't."

Russia stops. "Very well." He tilts his head. "We don't have to be enemies, you know. I don't want that to happen."

America exhales, looking up at the sky. "Do we really have any say in that?" he asks. "It's not up to us, really, is it?"

"Perhaps not," Russia agrees, "but that does not mean we cannot do things of our own volition."

"Like eating Germany, you mean."

"I do not know that that was even my own desire. I'd argue that it was simply according to my nature. We are monsters, after all."

"Heh." America folds his arms. "Seems that way."

"Given that you do not even have a cage within you, your restraint is remarkable."

"I guess I'm deficient," America says. "Defective, even."

"Perhaps so."

America looks to him. "France and England are way pissed at you," he says conversationally. "Spitting mad."

"I'm sure they are. They like to get their own way."

America laughs. "Yeah, they do," he agrees. "Damn, I guess I never thought of it like that. Spoilt brats, the pair of 'em!"

"What will you do now, America?"

"Hm?" America blinks at him. "Well, Japan doesn't know when to quit so I guess I'm not done yet."

"You should run," Russia says. "While you still can."

America rolls his eyes. "Yeah, sure. From who? You?" He grins. "England?"

"From the humans," Russia replies. "Before they make you do something you'll regret. A monster correctly harnessed is a weapon. Our only hope is to be untameable."

"Is that why you did it?" America asks. "To get that mad look in your eye, the foam at your mouth? What kind of creature eats his own sort, after all?"

Russia smiles. "What kind of creature indeed?" He wipes at his mouth, coming around the edge of the clearing, pale bare feet stepping between knobbled roots. It's like he's circling it – or perhaps America, who knows?

America watches him carefully. "Gonna eat me too?" he asks. He's almost cheerful about it.

"You're too big to swallow, comrade."

"You haven't even tried." America's nails press into his palms. But I'll kill you if you do.

"America, I don't want anything from you," Russia says idly. "But I think of us as friends. It is not our fault that our humans are so hostile to one another. Won't you come with me? We don't have to be a part of this. Not anymore."

"Where are you going to go?"

"I don't know yet. Somewhere." Russia sighs tiredly. "Away from here."

"I can't go with you," America says. "I have to settle up with Japan."

"Just eat him and be done with it." Russia shrugs. "It is simple enough."

"Maybe so," America agrees, putting his hands in his pockets. He knows that's not how it's going to be. "Goodbye, Russia."

"Goodbye, comrade. Do not say that I didn't try to help you."

"No, I won't forget."

America picks up his bomber jacket and slings it over his shoulders like a second skin. He turns his back on Russia and walks away, back to the damage; but at the edge of the clearing he stops and turns back. Russia, he thinks, will have gone, vanished into the forest's deep spindled heart, gone barefoot amidst the dreadful folklore from which he and all their kind first came.

But Russia is still there, carefully picking his way over roots and dead leaves, eyes down, following the edge of the clearing around and around and around.

It's almost dawn when they get back to the hotel, the sky a weary greyish-pink. England gets out of the car without waiting for him, crunching up over the steps in his ungodly green. America remembers him in red, prefers it. At least then he knew where he stood. Green seems so neutral, natural, like a forest, like he could blend in and be gone without you even noticing.

He wonders about Russia – if he's still circling that devil's footprint. The thought of it makes him shudder.

"Where did you skulk off to, anyway?" England asks at last as they make their way up the curling stairs to their attic room.

"I went outside for a smoke," America replies.

"You wandered off, you little liar. I looked for you, I called your bloody name."

"I was ignoring you."

"You couldn't hear me."

"Is that what you think? That I wouldn't dare ignore you?"

England snorts. "It's more that you can't afford to."

"Oh, shut up, England." America gives an irritated roll of his eyes. "You're so full of crap, I swear to god." He pushes past him, deliberately ramming him into the banister. "After you and France started talking French in front of me, Christ..."

"I apologise," England says, rubbing at him arm. "It was obnoxious of him. I shouldn't have conceded."

"Whatever. I'm sure what you were saying wasn't all that important." America comes to the door and waits for England and the key.

"On the contrary..." England reaches past him to unlock the door. "...I'm concerned about you. We both are."

"Didn't sound much like it." America ducks under his arm and into the room.

"France's concern is from a more mercenary perspective, I'll grant you," England replies. He leans back against the door, shuts it with his weight. "And as for me... well, you can think what you like. I know I'm beastly to you at times but nonetheless... I do care about you, America. You know that."

"Do I?" America drops his bomber jacket over the back of the chair at the dresser and goes to flop across the unmade bed. "I don't know. You're not who you used to be, England. You're not the boy I loved back then."

"Of course I'm not. That was almost two hundred years ago now."

"Well, all the same, I liked him better."

England exhaled through his nose. "You're being absurd."

"Yeah." America pulls off his glasses and tosses them across the covers so he can bury his face in his arms. "I guess I am."

England comes to the bed and sits on the edge, reaching to rub at the back of America's hair. "We weren't blaming you," he says. "France and I. We're just worried – about what's going to happen next, about..."

"Huh." America shifts. "Why are you being nice all of a sudden? It's unsettling."

England laughs. "Well, perhaps I'm unsettled."

"I bet you are. You and France were planning to eat Germany, right?"

"Not this time. I don't think there'd have been much between us." England folds limply across him and sighs. "I wish you hadn't come. I wish Japan had had more sense than to drag you into this."

"It's done now."

"I know."

"England, I know about the armour." America pauses, feels England stiffen atop him. "I've known for years. Russia told me."

"Did he now." This isn't a question.

"I haven't got any," America goes on. "Why?"

"There didn't seem much point when you were little," England says quietly. "You were a child, a colony. I didn't know if you would even survive, never mind become a fully-fledged nation. No, that was something I never expected. As for the Founding Fathers, well, they were idealists. They didn't want you to be like us. They wanted you to be new and free, not tied down by royal blood ties and politics and religion and war. You might say that you were their experiment. What would you become if only they didn't cage you?"

"I don't seem like I'm that much different."

"Maybe not but... well, consider the armour: a cage in the shape of a man. It aligns our basest instincts with their own."

"What, having sex and eating each other?"

England rolls over, pressing his cheek to America's spine. "Precisely. Perfectly human, don't you think?"

"I've never seen humans takes a bite out of one another!"

"Haven't you?" England yawns. "Isn't that exactly what a war is?"

America is quiet. He can feel England breathing against his back, fancies he can know the dense press of the metal beneath his skin.

"But I fight too," he says eventually. "I fight and I kill–"

"We've been through this. You don't do it for you."

"I've wanted to eat you," America goes on, though he barely believes it himself. "You most of all, England. I've wanted to devour you whole."

"But you've never done it," England replies calmly. He kisses the back of America's neck and gets up. "If you really wanted to do it then you would – but it's just not in you."

"You don't know that," America says savagely. "Not for sure. Maybe... maybe one day I'll–"

"One day, one day." England finds his cigarettes and lighter. "Yes, perhaps one day, my love. But not today."

America rolls over onto his back, watching him light up. "You're not at all afraid, are you?" he asks softly. "Not of me, even though I've got no cage and you have no idea what the hell I'll do."

"Of course not." England snaps his lighter shut.

"What if I grow six arms and two heads and twenty rows of teeth, England? What then?"

England grins at him through the smoke. "All the better to eat me with, eh?"

"I'm being serious."

"I know you are – but I'm not afraid of you, America, even though I suspect one day you'll be the death of me. I've loved you since the moment I saw you."

"Huh." America looks at the ceiling. "Hasn't always seemed like it."

"Well, you've been watching me go through my death throes." England looks at his cigarette. "You can't expect one to be perfectly civil all the time under those circumstances."

"God, talking to you sure is exhausting," America snaps. "You speak in doubles. Are you going to have a riddle carved into your tombstone and all?"

"Tombstone?" England laughs again. "I doubt there'll be much left of me to bury."

[America fucks him because he thinks it's what he wants, he's convinced himself that it's the best thing for both of them. England lets him. He doesn't gasp, he doesn't wail or cling. America runs his tongue over his teeth but he can't do it, he can't do it, he can't do it. Instead he kisses England, feels his, half-prays that he'll bite his tongue off and then he can speak no evil ever again.

England takes his face, presses his forehead to his. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "It would have been so much kinder to leave you to die."

"What should I do?" America asks. "What should I do, what should I..."

"Run," England says, stroking at his hair, "and don't look back."]

But in the end he doesn't have the courage – or, at least, he can't run fast enough.

Neither can Russia. They probably caught him in the clearing, going around and around. No doubt he walked straight into their arms.

"Is that what we're calling this?" America asks lazily. "A conference?"

France glowers. He's filthy, his uniform tattered and torn, trembling on crutches. England isn't much better; he's lost an eye, the flesh around it blistered and burned away.

"This is what we do, isn't it?" America goes on. "When we want peace? We gather around a table, just us nations, and talk it out. Sometimes we eat somebody afterwards."

France's blue eyes narrow. "This isn't a fucking peace talk," he seethes. "This is you–"

"No, France," England interrupts calmly. He meets America's eyes. "That's what this is, isn't it, America? You want peace now. You want it all to stop."

America shrugs his broad shoulders. Beyond him the world is irretrievable. He and Russia have done their duties, served well as weapons.

"There's no coming back from this now," he says softly. He smiles at England. "...This is what you were afraid of, isn't it? One or two nations would never be enough for me. I'd sooner swallow up the world."

"The humans–" England starts.

"No," America says calmly. "It's easy to blame them, isn't it, because they're stupid and selfish and short-sighted. You think we're the ones folded into their bloody image but I think it's the other way around."

"And so what are you?" France spits. "What, Amérique? A deity? A god?"

America's golden smile settles on France. "Was I not the design of good men who wanted perfection?" he says. "A New World? Am I not Manifest Destiny?"

"And is this our destiny, America?" England asks tiredly. "A handful of dust?"

"I will show you fear," America replies cheerfully, disarming him. "Don't give me that look, England – or what you've got left of it." He reaches for England's destroyed face, amused when he flinches away. "Damn, it's rich coming from the pair of you. Where's Spain, too? Let's get the whole gang here."

"Where is Russia?" France asks coldly. "Did you devour him?"

America laughs uproariously. "No way, that's not my thing. I guess he's in some hole in the ground somewhere." Another shrug. "Crater. Whatever."

"I thought he was your friend."

"He was. We chose this. We wanted the same thing in the end." America tilts his head. "An end to it all. Don't you see? We're all free now. No borders, no language, no history. Now there is no cause for war. Isn't this what we all wanted? Isn't that why you ate one another, really? Because you wanted peace?"

"Oh god," England moans, sinking onto a weave of twisted metal. "Couldn't you have just eaten me, America, and spared me all this?"

"Couldn't bring myself to do it, babe," America says carelessly. "I love you, you know?"

France gives a bitter laugh. "If you loved any of us half as much as you love yourself, you'd have killed us all," he says. "You'd at least have been as merciful as that."

"Perhaps I'm not a merciful god." America puts his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket. "Or perhaps I need Adams and Eves – or serpents and apples, at the very least."

England looks up. "America," he says desperately, "this wasn't your fault. They made you do this, they..."

America grins as he trails off. "I'm not the boy I was back then, either," he says calmly. "You understand, don't you, England? You can try and blame everybody but me but that's not what I want. You could never have changed this outcome. I chose this. I really did. In the end, my teeth were so much bigger than yours."

"You're a liar," England says quietly, "but I suppose it doesn't make much difference now. This is what we're left with."

America puts out his hand. "Come on, darling," he says. "We've got a long way to go. I hope that armour of yours is thick."

England says nothing. After a moment, he puts his blistered palm into America's. France gives a snort of disgust.

"You two can do what you want," he says bitterly. "I will never worship you as Angleterre does, Amérique."

"No, that's true," America agrees, pulling England in close, holding him tight. "He is my original sin."

I think really what this entire story boils down to is that nations want to love each other but can't quite figure out how to do it so they a.) eat each other; or b.) cause nuclear armageddon. The End.

This is something of a reference to Charlotte Perkins Gilman's The Yellow Wallpaper in here in addition to a reversed quotation of T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land: 'I will show you fear/in a handful of dust'.