Took a break from DOI and BTI to do a fill for the SFW half of the Kink Meme (how many initialisms can I put in one A/N?). The poor OP requested America hurt/comfort, and I gave him/her this monstrosity. xD

Beware of some strong language and the like if that's not your cup of tea.

"With memory set smarting like a reopened wound, a man's past is not simply a dead history, an outworn preparation of the present: it is not a repented error shaken loose from the life: it is still a quivering part of himself, bringing shudders and bitter flavors and the tinglings of a merited shame." ~George Eliot

"I'm fine. What are you talking about?"

America laughed as the corners of his mouth shakily crept up in a small smile. He thumbed through the stack of papers sitting on the conference table before him and, removing a pencil from behind his ear, pretended to make a few notes in the margins.

England was having none of his charade. It was rare to see America without a smile; it was worse to see him struggle to put one on.

He was worried. Very worried.

"I'm talking about you and your behavior recently. You've been quiet during meetings and I can't remember the last time I saw you with a hamburger and damn it America are you even listening to me?"

America dropped his pencil and looked up at his brother with a wider—and more disconcerting—fake smile.

"Sorry, were you saying something? I'm trying to concentrate on all this paperwork you gave—"

England snatched up the piece of paper underneath America's hand. "This is the annual report of how much cotton your southern states shipped abroad. You can't possibly care that much about that."

A tremor ran through America as his heart stopped for a second. With a laugh, he put his shaking hands in his lap beneath the table to hide them from the other nation and fidgeted under England's scrutinizing stare. The conference room began filling up with nations returning from their mid-morning break outside (America had stayed inside in an attempt to find something to distract himself, and England had come in early to talk to him in private), and, upon noticing Canada and France taking their seats across the table, the American stood up, his smile gone, and said, "Oh, hey, I gotta go talk to them about something. Catch ya later, Iggy."

Then, he hurried away, leaving his confused older brother to stare after him, his heart thudding in his chest and his brows furrowing deeply.

Something was not right.

The small lamp on America's desk flickered as he worked late into the night. Not even for a moment had he thought about sleeping. Even as he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, he refused to give in to his exhaustion. What did he care if he couldn't remember the last time he had slept through the night? Only the scattered, dog-eared papers in front of him mattered in that moment.

The nation picked up a worn book from the floor and, holding it close to his strained eyes, tried to make sense of the numbers and figures that damned him with every digit. Over 600,000. Then 750,000, some said. 10 percent and 30 percent—all dead. Murdered, slaughtered, tortured.

And it was all his fault because he had sat back and let it happen. He had watched them kill each other and hadn't done a damn thing about it. They had suffered at his idle hands, reaped sorrow from his seeds of indifference.

He might as well have stepped out onto every battlefield and hacked them all to pieces himself.

America folded the top corner of the page on Canada's involvement in the war—if you cross me and support them, England, I'll go after him—and reminded himself to read it in more detail later. For the moment, he needed to return to his reports on the state of affairs in the southern region of his country. Louisiana was recovering nicely from the disasters a few years back, he noticed. He thought he should smile or at least react in some way to the news, but he barely felt anything. His heart was a chasm, an abyss with no end. It wasn't that good news couldn't fill it or make him feel better; it was just that he didn't quite remember what good news was at all.

After a few hours, he had finished reading a 200-page analysis of political parties and their cyclic popularity in the South. America knew all of the information already—of course he remembered the Solid South and recognized the resurgence of the GOP following the Gingrich Revolution—but he forced himself to read it over and over again, trying to make sense of the differing political climates throughout his land. "A house divided against itself cannot stand"—he shuddered at the saying, as if a sudden chill had crept up his spine.

With eyes clouded by weariness and grogginess, America turned to look at the clock on the nightstand beside the bed (still made and untouched) in his hotel room. 7:00 a.m. An hour after he was supposed to have gotten up and dressed and ready for the meeting at eight. With a sigh, he pushed his chair back and stood up, stretching his cramped arms above his head. He looked at his hands, streaked with ink and dented where he had held his pen too tight. The signs of work well done.

America was reaching over the desk to turn off the lamp when his gaze fell on a yellow piece of paper tucked beneath one of the smaller stacks. Curious, he pulled it free and looked it over, his tired eyes taking a few moments to comprehend the words.

Then, he saw the drawings of sunflowers along the border of the page.

Kansas.

He wanted to retch. At the thought of the humble, homey state, America did not see fields of wheat and beautiful sunrises on the western plains but blood and bodies. He did not hear the sounds of tractors and combines during the harvest but of gunfire and groans of pain during battles he could have stopped. The rivers ran red and the settlers screamed and the people protested but fuck it all only he had the power to end the fighting.

And he hadn't.

Collapsing to the floor, America began trembling. He struggled to rip the paper into tiny pieces, tearing the sunflowers into tiny flecks of yellow paper.

He would not think of Kansas.

He could not think of Kansas.

Inside, he screamed, but his voice could not drown out the moans of the dead haunting him.

"Have you seen America, France?"

England tapped his fingers on the table in the conference room. As minutes ticked by and America failed to appear, he began adjusting his tie, tying his shoes, organizing his papers—anything to keep him from focusing on his anxiety.

"Mmm, no, I can't remember the last time I saw him," said France, wondering why England suddenly wanted to know his ex-colony's whereabouts. He decided perhaps he shouldn't ask, given how agitated he looked.

The Briton exhaled sharply and cupped his chin in his hand. It was five past ten; even America shouldn't have been this late. If only he could have a few more moments, a bit of a longer break, he could go look for him. He knew better than to miss too much of a meeting as important as this one. No one had been particularly thrilled about America's absence (as obnoxious as they found him, the other G8 nations couldn't exactly talk about the global economy without one of its main superpowers); what would they say if he walked away, even if he meant to bring America back?

"England?" Canada appeared at France's elbow, struggling to balance his cup of coffee in his hand and stack of books in his arms. "Let me set these down—there. I haven't seen America at all today, but I think I heard someone moving around in his room earlier before I came down this morning."

"Do you think he's still there?"

"I don't really know, sorry. He could be, if he's not here, or he could just be playing hooky elsewhere."

England thought a moment longer; then, he motioned for France and Canada to come closer.

"Do either of you know," he said while leaning forward, his voice quiet to keep the other nations from hearing, "if anything is wrong in his country?"

Canada and France glanced at each other, brows furrowed with concern.

"Is something wrong with America?" France asked. True, the noisy nation hadn't been his loud self lately, now that he thought about it. He felt a small twinge of guilt for not noticing sooner; the change in America's behavior seemed so obvious in hindsight, so noticeable once England had pointed it out to him.

"Is something wrong with him? You have got to be kidding me. Haven't you noticed the way he actually does his damn work for once and shuts up at meetings? He's become a workaholic and a recluse, at that."

Canada held up a hand to stop England and keep whatever semblance of peace he could. The last thing they needed to do was fight in the midst of a situation like this.

"I don't think anything unusual is happening. There are Congressional midterms coming up, but I doubt he'd be that worked up about them. None of his analysts—or mine, even—predict a major transfer of power from one party to the other. I can't think of anything."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. I'll keep thinking about it, though."

"Thanks."

Germany walked into the room with Italy and Japan then, and France and Canada went to sit at their places across the table. Just before turning to leave, however, France said, "He's strong, England. He'll be fine."

The Briton scoffed, but deep down, he appreciated France's reassuring words. America was strong. But strength didn't mean exemption from suffering, just resilience to persevere through no matter what. And, as many often misinterpreted it, it didn't mean to wander through the muck and confusion of pain alone.

England returned to his notes, but not before casting one more glance at the closed door.

Slowly, America woke up.

He moved his fingers and found they were covered in yellow dust. His head rested against a hard, stiff pillow that hurt more than supported. The crusty sleep and runny goop in his eyes prevented him from seeing anything clearly, but he could hear someone hammering far away. For some reason, the sound reminded him of the famed Golden Spike that made his railroads one and joined his oceans together. The memory of his people gathered together in modern Utah to celebrate the union brought a smile to his face that disappeared as he began to recall the past few hours. Everything came rushing back like a train traveling too fast on the transcontinental railroad and crashing into a passerby on accident.

There had been no union, no happy gathering, at all.

Instead of hammering the Last Spike, the strange person America heard was blowing up the Georgia railroad, warping the ties over smoldering campfires and strangling the dying trees with the remaining metal. Now he was tearing down any property he could get his hands on: cotton gins, plantation houses, government buildings. And he was laughing gleefully as he did so, like a madman who, when faced with the choice of acknowledging his lunacy or finding help, not only accepted his delusions but rejoiced in them, as if they were better than reality.

Sing it as we used to sing it, fifty-fucking-thousand strong.

"America!"

If only he could have died from those wounds.

"America! Are you in there?"

If only something would have pushed him a little further, would have twisted the knife a little deeper, would have eviscerated him a little longer.

"Answer me!"

He knew that voice.

"…England?"

"Yes, it's me! Open the door!"

America took off his glasses for a moment, then put them back on. While the adjustment did not improve his vision greatly, the movement cleared his mind a little. He sat up, only to smack his head on something hard and solid. His hand flew to the wound, which began to burn from the sudden swelling and inflammation.

"What the hell—"

The nation looked up and realized he had been lying underneath his desk with his head pillowed on the legs of the swivel chair. He held several small pieces of paper in his hand, though he could not remember exactly what the paper had been before he had turned it to straw-colored confetti. He only knew it had caused him some kind of horrible pain.

A shaky laugh that seemed to originate from the pit of his stomach rather than from his throat bubbled up, bitter bile on his lips as he called to his brother, "Yeah, gimme a sec!"

Outside, England waited with arms crossed and pressed against his chest tightly. The meeting had finally adjourned for lunch—only another few hours and it would be over until the next summit. All for the best, he knew, since it would give him more time to figure out what was wrong with America. It had to be something serious, even if Canada had said things seemed all right in his brother's country. If England had learned anything as a nation, it was that sometimes, peace was a charade, a faux sense of security designed to calm the people while something more insidious operated behind the scenes.

So it might be with his former colony.

When America opened the door, he found his fellow nation standing defensively, almost belligerently, his face irritated, his arms folded, one leg crossed over the other. He pretended to chuckle.

"What'd I do this time, Iggy?"

England looked up into the groggy blue eyes that stared mirthlessly back at him. He tried to find a way into the room, but he couldn't slip past America's strong, muscular frame that easily.

"It's more of what you didn't—wait, why are you wearing the same clothes you had on yesterday?"

"Because all my clothes look the same?" Halfway through his response that was a hybrid of a statement and a question—a betrayal of the strange emptiness swallowing him from the inside out—America realized how stupid he sounded. Getting England to back off would be so much easier if he weren't such an idiot, he thought.

"You didn't go to bed at all last night, did you?" England drew closer, hoping to force America back into the room. He didn't budge.

"And what if I didn't?"

"America." England sighed and uncrossed his arms, letting them hang at his sides in a more open gesture. "You need to start getting more sleep."

"It's not that big of a deal. I already said I've had a lot of work to do."

"Is it the midterms? Are they bothering you?"

"No. I like seeing my people exercising their right to vote."

"Of course, of course." Well, Canada's sole suggestion had been proven wrong. Given how uncertain it had been from the beginning, however, England didn't feel too crestfallen.

"Iggy?"

"Yes?" England noticed that America's eyes had softened a little. He waited, putting up a façade of patience while internally begging America to give in, to confide in him.

America took off his glasses again and wiped the lenses clean with his wrinkled shirt. The circles underneath his eyes, dark purple half-moons that made his pale skin look yellow, gave England an uneasy feeling that this problem, whatever it was, had long since penetrated every one of his fellow nation's emotional defenses.

"Why did you come up here?"

"You want to know why?" England rose on his tiptoes to make up for the two centimeters he stood beneath America. He would never get over the fact that his colony now towered over him (two centimeters seemed like two whole meters to England when it came to their height difference). "Because there is obviously something wrong with you."

"I told you, I'm fine. Weren't you listening yesterday?"

"Of course I was listening! I just think you're lying. No—I know you're lying. Just look at yourself, America. When was the last time you slept? When did you last talk at a meeting or change your clothes? Have you looked away from your paperwork at all lately?"

England tapped his fingers against his thigh as he waited for an answer. America grimaced a little, hoping the older nation wouldn't notice. His gaze wandered to the white and blue wallpaper on the other side of the hall. Bordering the wall near the ceiling and the floor was a dark trim decorated with small stars. Upon staring at it, America found himself whisked away to a different world that both existed only in his memory and yet remained as real and as present as England (even though he looked like a faint specter standing somewhere near him). He saw two star-spangled flags flying far above him, both dripping blood on his head. Both crying for his support, both clamoring for vengeance.

You belong to us, they whispered in unison. We are America.

The blood ran down America's face like tears—tears that he could not cry for shame and for guilt. What did his pain matter in the midst of his people's suffering? What did it matter if he died, with them all being slaughtered at his hands? He deserved to exsanguinate, to pour out five drops of blood for every single drop of his people's blood he had shed. He should have been crucified upon that Southern Cross while the people tore his Star-Spangled Banner to shreds.

America knew he did not merit either flag.

"America? What are you doing?"

England waved his hand in front of the younger nation's face; then, his heartbeat speeding up, he grabbed his shoulders and began shaking him.

America made no effort to stop him but instead brushed his fingers against the flag pin on the lapel of his jacket. England watched in shock as he unscrewed the back of the pin and removed it.

America never took off his flag pin.

Ever.

"Why are you…?"

Having returned to the present, America shrugged while England stood before him in frightened awe, no longer standing on his tiptoes.

"You're right. I should at least put on a different jacket."

"But…" England shook his head. Get ahold of yourself, or you won't be able to get ahold of him. "But don't you have pins on all your jackets?"

"Not my new one. I haven't gotten one for it yet." America put his hand behind his back and crushed the tiny pin to dust.

"Ah, yes. While you're at it, you should change the rest of your clothes, put some pajamas on, and go to bed."

"I thought you wanted me at the meeting."

England glanced to the side. "Well, that'd be nice, but you're just going to spend your time perusing those papers on the South—"

"Those what?"

"Those papers on the South. The economic and political reports you had yesterday—"

"What did you call them?"

England took a step back at the malice in America's voice. "The papers on the Sou—"

"It's not the South! It's me! It's America, too!"

"America," England said as he held his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. He had to calm him down somehow; if only he knew what to say and do! "I was just referring to your states by their location—"

"It's not the South!"

He slammed the door in England's face, buried his head in his hands, sank to the floor, and forgot how to breathe.

England rubbed his aching forehead and smoothed his unkempt hair back. Sleep sounded like the most wonderful thing in all the world this late in the day after so much intensive research. He had been working with his foreign policy and international relations experts and embassy officials for hours now to make sure nothing was too amiss in the United States. He'd even called up his ambassador, for Heaven's sake. Hours, and the only lead they'd found concerned America's economy. Even that was a dead end, since the situation had slowly begun to improve. If anything, America should have been getting better, not worse, as England feared he was.

"The South." He paused, wishing he could think of another term for the southern region of the US. "Can we find anything specific about the South?"

The ambassador turned to the nation. "Oh, I can think of one thing going on there. I don't know if it would interest you, of course. Why do you want to know about the American South so much that you've called us all here and worked us so long—not that I mind, of course?"

England cleared his throat and tapped his foot impatiently. "I've a friend who lives there. And who says gathering information on one of our allies is a waste of time?"

"Quite right, quite right. They're getting ready for the sesquicentennial—that's one hundred and fifty years, you know—of their civil war. It's a bit of a heated issue, since there are some major reenactments scheduled to take place. And, of course, there's the division that—sir?"

The nation had gone pale and still.

The War Between the States.

The American Civil War.

America's scar.

Shit.

"Well, this has been a productive session." England stood up from his desk abruptly and pulled on his coat. "If you all would like to continue working, please feel free to do so, but I have another meeting to attend to."

"This late in the day?" the ambassador asked.

"Some things just can't wait for a decent time," the nation said before he hurried out of the room, out of the building, and toward his car.

He needed to get to the airport.

Fast.

England had spent the entire flight fretting to himself. He was a damn nation; why couldn't he get to DC faster? Plus, he had left late in the afternoon and wouldn't get to the States until the middle of the night, leaving him positively exhausted. He couldn't sleep on the flight for fear of what he might find when he reached America.

But all of it was worth it if he arrived in time (and even if he didn't). If he could just stop it all, if he could help his brother and take care of him, things would be all right. Eventually, at least.

The moment the Briton stepped off the airplane, he whipped out his phone and tried to call America. No answer, not even a voicemail. Just a cold, dead tone.

No.

He found a taxi to take to America's house and spent nearly the entire ride (far longer than he remembered) mashing the buttons on his phone, trying again and again to reach the other nation. Every time, he was met with the same dismal greeting of empty noise. England desperately wanted to shove the driver into the passenger seat and take over the gas pedal. With no traffic, no policemen nearby, and no inclement weather, they had no reason to be moving so slowly. Five miles per hour under the speed limit? Please.

England leaned his head against the window and stared at the river running through the city. He smiled for a moment at the memory of taking his little colony swimming there, the sunlight playing on the waters and the wind stirring up tiny waves that delighted him. He could see why his little brother had adopted it as his river and sometimes spent days sitting on its banks, thinking and remembering.

His smile disappeared when he thought of what lay beyond the dark, moonlit waters. Across the river from the metropolis and its hubbub of conversation and political intrigue was the land of the deceased with its white and grey headstones scattered like snowflakes, standing as damning reminders of the past and the future alike. The Potomac was like the Styx, its boats full of people to ferry across the great divide between life and death. But it had no miraculous powers to grant invulnerability; quite the opposite, in fact. Because whoever crossed it to see the cemetery suddenly became susceptible to fear and solemn thoughts.

Especially America.

England had been to Arlington National Cemetery with his brother once or twice before. Every time he looked at his young face and blue eyes, the older nation's heart moved with pity. This shrine to America's fallen had been established partly as an act of revenge, something England knew the American hated. Even more, though, he hated the droves of the dead buried here. His dead. His citizens who fell in his wars. He didn't even know some of their names. Whenever he visited the cemetery, America went to the Tombs of the Unknowns and sat for hours beside them, even when the rain poured and the snow fell and the hurricanes raged. He protected them. It was the least he could do. Particularly since he had failed to protect and save them all in life.

England looked away from the window and down at his hands.

He too would protect his brother—from his guilt.

The Briton knocked on the door of America's house in Northern Virginia, the one he normally stayed in. Much as he hated to think so, England figured he could find his brother here because of the house's proximity to the cemetery. And hadn't Virginia been a prominent member of the Confederacy during the war, with the capital in Richmond and most of its heroes originating from there?

If he could find America anywhere, it would be here in the heart not only of the Confederate States but also of the country itself.

A shuffle of footsteps came from within the house. England caught his breath as his former colony answered the door looking more worn and woebegone than before, if that were even possible. His exhaustion, however, did not capture England's attention as much as the large patch of something on America's torso.

Something dark and red.

"Oh, fuck."

England covered his mouth as his stomach lurched. He stared at his brother and reached into the pocket of his coat without entirely realizing what he was doing.

"I-I'm getting help," he said, curling his fingers around his phone—which he nearly dropped as America fell over the threshold into his arms, blood oozing faster from his abdomen.

He had to do something.

"America?" England struggled to get his brother back into the house. He wrapped his arms around him and held him close, not caring that he was smearing America's blood all over his coat. He had to think of somewhere to lay him down while they waited. America was too heavy and limp for England to carry him up the stairs; the wood floor near the front door would have to do.

Kneeling down, the elder held the younger, supporting him with one arm while trying to use his cell phone with his other hand. A slight pressure on his wrist made England look away from the glowing screen and down at his brother.

America was trying to sit up by using England's free arm for leverage. Though in great pain, within and without, he still struggled to control his body and the situation.

"Don't, England."

"Are you crazy?" The Briton pushed him back to the floor, a task more difficult than he had expected given his brother's condition. He set his phone aside for the moment and began taking off his coat to wrap around America's waist in an attempt to curtail and contain the blood flow. Then, he placed a hand to his face and behind his neck. Sure enough, his skin was cold to the touch, enough to make England's heart contract sharply. "Look at how much you're bleeding."

"I know. Don't."

"You're hardly in a position to tell me to do anything." England punched the few iconic numbers into his phone and waited for someone to answer. To America and the unknown person not yet on the other end of the line, he whispered, "Come on. Come on."

"Please." America was begging now, pleading with his brother to let him bask in his pain, feel every ounce of blood ooze out of his body, savor every detail of his suffering. He deserved this. He had earned the humiliation of being conquered by his memories, of having his spirit slain by those he could not save. He had hurt his people and let them down; now it was their time to hurt him in return, to haunt him as restless ghosts unsatisfied with being confined to the past and thought of as mere memories.

"Yes, I need an ambulance for my brother. He has severe bleeding from an abdominal wound. We're at…"

America covered his face with his arm and cursed the fact that he, the savior, now had to be saved, like it or not.

England jerked his head upright and looked around the room. He must have nodded off for a short while: the waiting room was now empty, the family sitting in the corner having left since he had closed his eyes. A glance at his watch told him it was now seven in the morning. Absent-mindedly, he wondered if anyone from the government would be looking for America at the moment. He knew he could easily call them and explain that Mr. Jones was ill and couldn't come to work, but England had decided the White House was the least of his worries for the present. Number one on the very short list of his priorities was figuring out what to do about his brother, a close second being staving off his nervous impatience.

Well, and his guilt.

When the war had first broken out, he and France had agreed not to intervene. Painful as the decision had been, both had known they couldn't possibly take sides in a conflict threatening to tear their family member to pieces. To take either side would have been to exacerbate his pain. America had loved both the Union and the Confederacy—weren't they both his people and weren't they both him?—and neither France nor England had wanted to upset him by favoring one over the other. He had threatened to attack Canada if England helped the South, but what if he had taken the North's side instead? How would he have retaliated then?

That was hardly the worst of it, though. England had wanted to help America—not the Union, not the Confederacy, America—but France hadn't allowed it.

"Just look at him!" England had said. "He's falling apart. He's going to drive himself crazy and do something drastic. I don't care if we can't take sides! We can still do something, can't we?"

"No." France hadn't been able to look England in the eye. "He has to handle this himself. It's a test of his strength as a nation. That's just the way things are."

"A test of his strength? That's bullshit, and you know it!"

"I don't like it any more than you do."

"That's a lie. You don't care."

"You're not the only one who loves him, England."

England rubbed the side of his face with the heel of his hand, as if trying to massage the tiredness from his body. His worry had kept him awake for the past few hours, but its effects had begun to wear off within the last thirty minutes. All he wanted besides seeing America awake and well was a nice cup of tea. No winter morning was complete without a piping hot mug of milky Earl Grey and the strong smell of bergamot swirling through the air. England wished he would have had enough forethought to take his other coat, the one he had stuffed full of packets of teabags (loose leaf being too much of an inconvenience to carry around and use away from home). Even the scent of the flavorful herbs and oils would have been calming enough.

His phone buzzed. England fished it out of his pocket, only to discover that its battery was running low. He sighed and was about to stuff it back when he decided he should probably let Canada and France know what had happened. They too had been worried to the point of contacting their international relations specialists, although last England had checked, they hadn't discovered anything.

"Hey, Canada?" England said once the other nation had answered his phone.

"England?" Canada tried to stifle a yawn. "Is something wrong?"

Stupid time differences, the Briton thought, remembering that Canada was in Vancouver at the moment, where it was just past four in the morning.

"We figured out what's wrong with America."

"What?" Canada sat up straighter in bed and bid farewell to any thoughts of getting more sleep. "Is it serious?"

"I suppose that depends on what you mean by serious. My ambassador said his people are getting ready for the sesquicentennial of his civil war."

"So pretty serious, in other words."

"I'd say so."

"How is he?"

"I went to his house in Virginia—the one just outside the capital, near Arlington National Cemetery—and found him bleeding from that nasty scar the war left. I got an ambulance, and they're doing… something now. I haven't heard anything for a while yet."

"Don't blame yourself."

"Hmm?"

"England, America's good at hiding things that hurt him. Just because you couldn't get him to say anything doesn't mean it's your fault."

But I should have figured it out before I did, England said in his mind. That narrow focus on matters in the South without paying attention to anything in the North or anywhere else… He thinks he has to make it up to them somehow, doesn't he? And I didn't catch on. Not soon enough.

"Well… thanks, Canada."

"No problem. Should I head over there? It's probably not a good idea for you to be there on your own."

"Not unless things get worse. You have a lot of things to take care of over there right now, yes?"

"I s'pose. I wouldn't want that to get in the way—"

"It's not going to. I'll let you know if I need you. And I'll let him know you're worried."

"Sounds good. Thanks for letting me know."

"You're welcome. Oh, and one more thing, if you don't mind: could you let France know for me?"

"Of course." As expected, no rest for the weary. Canada hardly thought he should complain, however, considering what England was dealing with. "I'll let him know once I'm done talking to you."

"I'd better let you go, then. Thanks, Canada."

"No worries, England. Talk to you later."

England cupped his cheek in his hand and tried to keep his head from hitting the table. Before long, his body and its demands for sleep would overwhelm his mind—he knew that well. He would still fight for victory, however fleeting, as long as he could.

"Mr. Kirkland?"

He lifted his head without opening his eyes.

"Hm?"

Someone tapped his shoulder and said his name again. The physical contact finally got him to look up to find a nurse standing in front of him.

"You came here with Alfred Jones, right, sir?"

England took a moment to process what the man had said, but he fully came to after a few repetitions of the words in his mind.

"Yes, that's right." He stood up and began to fiddle with the sleeves of his sweater as he waited for the nurse to give him any bit of news. Anything. Even America's blood pressure would have been enough.

"I'm happy to tell you he's just fine. He was a bit uncooperative at first, but we got him stabilized quickly. The bleeding was indeed severe, though fortunately without too many complications. You can go see him now, if you'd like."

"Yes, of course. Take me to him."

England followed the nurse out of the waiting room and into the depths of the hospital. Terrible as he felt about letting America get away with his selfish crusade to be selfless, England still felt a weight leave his shoulders upon reminding himself that, at least physically, his brother was all right. And he had reached him in time—well, not in time to keep his scar from coming back to life, but in time to get him help.

Well. Help for his external wounds.

Damn it all, he couldn't be happy with his role in any of this, could he?

"He's in here," the nurse said, jerking his thumb toward a door on the right side of the hallway. "Please let me or someone else know if either one of you needs anything."

England nodded. The man left to give the two nations time to talk alone.

The Briton walked into the small, grey-white room to find America curled up on his side, facing the window and the faint rays of sunlight peeking in through the drawn curtains. England felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach when he saw his brother's face buried in his blood-stained coat that he had used as a makeshift bandage earlier.

Few things could break America.

The fact that this one had almost broke England, too.

"Alfred?"

All his frustration, against himself and against his brother, melted away amidst the warmth of concern and love.

When America didn't answer, England drew nearer and placed a hand on his shoulder. He shook the other nation lightly, which made him bury his face deeper in England's coat.

The older nation paused. Then, he moved the lone chair in the far corner to America's bedside and, folding his hands in his lap, sat down.

He had raised the other nation. He had known him long enough to understand what to do in these situations.

England needed to talk about something.

"I haven't been to Virginia in a while," he said. Their location—an easy enough conversation starter. He could go on from there. "Of course, I haven't been to many of your states for a while. In fact—what's the name of that one in the northwest? No, no, not the Pacific Northwest, farther east than that. It's not Montana, I know—ah yes, I think it's called Idaho? You know, I've never even been to Idaho. What's it known for? Potatoes? That sounds right."

The Briton took a breath and thought a moment. America hadn't moved since he had begun rambling. He wasn't sure how to keep up the one-sided conversation, given that he knew pathetically little about Idaho. It was almost the Canada of the states, he thought: no one ever remembered it.

Perhaps he would try something else.

"I had tea with India the other day. Well, if you could call his chai tea. So strange. I don't know where he got that from. Most certainly not me. In any case, we had a nice conversation. I think it's the friendliest we've been since—well, you know. It's nice to see that we can get along. He has grown up so much, just like you. And I'm so proud of you both." England smiled. "You've both run your gauntlets as nations, and you've more than survived. In fact, I'd say you've thrived against the odds. You're incredible, America. You have been since the moment I first—"

A hand gripped his own.

Pensively, America looked over his shoulder at the older nation, who was still smiling. He started to shift onto his other side to face him, but the pain in his chest stopped him.

England saw him wince and reached out to help him.

"Here, move slowly," he said, supporting his brother with one arm behind his back and the other pressed against his front. "There. That's better."

The American clutched England's coat.

"You're going to be fine. It's—"

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You're not proud of me."

England frowned. "Of course I am. I mean, I don't go around singing your praises day in and day out, but it doesn't mean I don't—"

"How could anyone be proud of me?"

"Oh, Alfred."

"I let my people die. I let them kill each other."

"No. You didn't." England moved his chair closer. "Do you really think that you could have stopped the war? Do you really think it was in your power?"

"Yes."

"It wasn't. It was out of your hands." He reached out to put his hand on his brother's shoulder, but America drew back. "For once, America, let yourself be a victim. It's okay to admit that somewhere along the line, you got hurt, too."

"But…"

"No. Listen to me." England pulled the thin hospital blankets up to America's chin. "Be quiet for a moment. I need to show you something."

Pushing his chair back, the Briton stood up and tugged his sweater over his head. He reached up and pulled the plastic curtain across the room, shielding both nations from the sight of any passersby. Then, he began unbuttoning his shirt, despite the chill in the room.

"I never showed you this. I wish I had sooner."

America's eyes widened at the sight of a thin but still prominent scar running along the left side of England's chest. Painstakingly, he propped himself up on one elbow to get a better look at the pale pink tissue.

"The English Civil War." England took a breath. "Do you remember when you were still so small and I fell very ill, too ill to take care of you for a time? You wanted to know what was happening, but I refused to tell you. Even back then, I wanted to protect you from such horrible things. I still wish I could have saved you."

He gave America another moment to look at the physical reminder of so many bloody years of turmoil and chaos; then, unable to withstand the cold, England buttoned his shirt back up and put his sweater back on. Sympathy shining in his eyes, he took his seat again.

"You're not the only one to go through something like this. So many of us have. We're here for you, America, Alfred. I'm here for you. When I ask you what's wrong, I want to know. I want you to tell me. I shouldn't have to gather half my government to find out for myself. I shouldn't have to wait until you're bleeding out."

England looked his brother in the eyes.

"It's all right to let yourself hurt. It's the only way you're ever going to get better."

America let England's words sink in, penetrating as deep as the wounds of his Civil War. Like the memories of those horrific battles—Gettysburg, Fort Sumter, Antietam—they reached deep into his consciousness as a man and as a country, but unlike the ghosts taunting and hurting him, the words healed him. Where memory had blinded his sight, the words restored it; where blood had covered him, England washed him clean as if baptizing him and purifying him not only of the things he had done but of the things that had happened to him.

It's all right to let yourself hurt.

And so he did.

"Shh." England held his brother in his arms as he sobbed tears that he had held back for nearly one hundred and fifty years. "There you go. It's all right."

His brother's coat still in his hands, America put his arms around England and let himself be held, let himself be loved and cared for. Time and his brother's gentle words of comfort convinced him that, indeed, he would be all right. He could not step back in time and put his states back together. They had been puzzle pieces that someone had chipped and damaged so that they had no longer fit together. Tiny differences had eroded them like wind and water on rocks in the sea. Just as no one could prevent nature from weathering the earth and shaping it over the years, so too could no one have altered the course of history that had ruptured his country and cast him into the fissure.

The Civil War had happened. America had done his best to prevent it; when diplomacy had failed, he had tried over and over again to reconcile the two halves of himself. Never once had he killed a Confederate soldier or a Union supporter. Had he forgotten that? He had refused to fight. He wouldn't destroy his own people or harm them in any way. He had spent himself struggling for peace until he could do no more. And then, when reconstruction had begun and he finally awoke from the nightmare to tend to its aftermath, he had worked harder than anyone else to reason with the North and placate the South.

And he continued to do so until this day.

"I am proud of you."

Although England didn't state the plethora of reasons for his regard for his brother, America could finish his statement. He was proud because he had shown compassion for his people. He was proud because he had cared for them even when, perhaps, they did not reciprocate. He had been loyal and just and brave. Strong. Even to the point that it had broken him.

If the Civil War had been a test of his nationhood and its future, America had passed it. And he was still continuing to do so.

"You know what?" England said after America's sobs had mostly subsided.

"What?"

"You still need sleep."

America chuckled despite the dull, lingering ache in his chest. England laughed with him. It was wonderful to see America smiling, laughing. He would hurt for a while, the older nation knew. He would always bear his scar, and there would be days his states would fight and he would brush his fingers across the slick tissue and wonder why. But in wonder and memory consisted his entire existence. Made of moments passed and days to come, he was like a patchwork quilt. And on that quilt were dark squares juxtaposed with bright ones to create a beautiful, unique blanket that he could cuddle up in on cold days when he needed warmth and comfort. Even sadness could be transformed and made into something good when seen next to happiness and through the lens of joy.

"But what if I forgot how to sleep, Iggy?"

"Leave it to me."

England helped America lie down again and tucked him in. One hand on his brother's forehead, he began to whisper the lines of a song the other nation had taught him long ago—back when they had first visited the cemetery together.

"That song," England had said. "You know, the one the man with the bugle played. What's it called?"

"You've never heard of 'Taps'? They play it at night and during funerals here. Someone came up with it during the Civil War, and it's been a huge thing ever since. It's totally cool, isn't it?"

The older nation had recalled the haunting, melancholic melody that he hadn't been able to get out of his head and nodded.

"Yes. It is."

England kept his cool, comforting hand on America's head as he hushed him and sang slowly, dragging out each word, "A star gems the sky, gleaming bright; from afar drawing nigh falls the night."

"You know, they say the notes for this song were found in the pocket of a dead Confederate soldier. His dad, who fought for the Union, discovered him on the battlefield and had the song played at his funeral. I dunno if it's true, but isn't it nice to believe in it anyway?"

"…The light of the dawn shineth bright. God is near, do not fear."

"Yes. I do like that story."

England bent down and kissed America's forehead.

"Do not fear," he repeated with a smile.

"Friend, goodnight."

Ick. I was kinda sick when I wrote this. I still don't know if it makes sense or not.

(Tons and tons of) Historical Notes:

Not really a historical note, but I have a bit of a different headcanon regarding the Civil War, in case you didn't notice. First off, for various reasons, I don't believe the CSA had its own personification. I also don't believe America had a personality disorder or anything of the sort. I think he was very conflicted and caught up in the middle of everything and tried and failed to make it stop.

England and France were neutral during the war, though they did grant belligerent status to the Confederacy. This upset them somewhat, as part of their strategy had been to gain the aid of Europe. The Union threatened Great Britain by saying they would invade Canada if they supported the South. I'm sure it would not have gone well.

The "Gingrich Revolution" is a nickname given to the huge gains made by the Republican Party (or GOP; the more conservative of the two main American political parties) in the 1994 Congressional midterms. They picked up a bunch of seats in the House and the Senate, and, for the first time in fifty-odd years, controlled the majority of state legislatures.

The "Solid South" refers to the dominance of the Democratic Party in the Deep South from the beginning of Reconstruction until the Civil Rights Act of 1964 (an act pushed by the Democrats and President Lyndon B. Johnson that outlawed discrimination based on race, national origin, color, sex, etc.,thereby outlawing segregation). This was always odd to me because now, the South is so heavily Republican. The reason for it makes sense, though. Lincoln was a Republican, and the party has its origins in the anti-slavery movement. The South resented this greatly until 1964, when control of the region switched to the Republicans.

Kansas. Well. The pre-Civil War, so to speak, occurred here. Slavery was supposed to be illegal here because of the Missouri Compromise, but Congress decided to let the people in the territory decide. Settlers from Missouri came over and tried to vote in Kansas elections to make it a slave state. Violence broke out, giving the territory the unfortunate nickname, "Bleeding Kansas." There's still some enmity (a rivalry, at least) between Kansas and Missouri because of this.

The Golden Spike, or the Last Spike, was driven into the convergence of the Union Pacific and Central Pacific railroads in Utah to make one transcontinental railroad in 1869, just after the Civil War. It is considered one of the first big media events in the States. Lots of people turned out for the ceremony.

The second railroad mentioned, the Georgia railroad, is a reference to General Sherman's "March to the Sea," in which he and his men tried to demoralize the Confederacy by dismantling the railroad, burning whatever they could, etc. It worked. The line, "Sing it as we used to sing it, 50,000 strong" comes from the song "Marching Through Georgia" about the campaign.

"The Southern Cross" is a nickname given to one of the Confederate flags.

Arlington National Cemetery wasn't exactly created purely out of revenge, but, given that it stands on Confederate General Robert E. Lee's wife's estate, well...

Regarding "Taps," no, America's story about the dead Confederate soldier is actually not true. x3 I went ahead and included it all the same, since it's a popular piece of American folklore that dates back to the '30s. Taps is a very famous and beautiful melody. While there aren't any official lyrics, there are several unofficial verses. The ones England sings aren't the most popular, but I chose them because they struck me as the most beautiful and fitting for this fic.

I think that's all I got. Thanks so much for reading! You guys are the best. (: