June, 1756

The first time England left him, he was so young he could hardly remember it. Maybe it was spring in the Boston Harbor, but more likely summer, because the cold airs of the ocean's salty northern winds perpetuated the chill of winter into May, and yet that day was warm. America could remember the hustle of Boston swarming his ears, the merchants and men and women and sailors climbing aboard the ship so massive that he had to view it from two streets over to see its entirety. Great sails like clouds rippled in the gentle wind, church bells chimed the hour, and England was crouching down to his eye level- just an accessory to the scene.

"Now, America, I'll be gone for quite a while, you know, so I expect you to be on your best behavior," England sounded like he had rehearsed his words, and so America tuned him out like he did the sermons at church and the lessons in arithmetic and reading. America picked up a rock and began examining its tiny crevices and decisively stuck it in his toddler mouth.

"No- don't put that in your mouth! That's a rock, you…" but England couldn't think of an appropriate insult for a child, and so he gently slapped his hand on the boy's cheek, and the rock popped out.

"I'll be back in three years time, I hope, but until then, don't let France visit, and-" England stopped mid-sentence, closed his eyes, and sighed deeply, "America, are you listening?"

When America nodded, fixated on playing with the buttons on his shirt, England smiled in endearment, "It's like talking to a brick wall." He laughed into the Summer air and his hair gleamed golden in the sunlight.

"Goodbye, America," He ruffled the boys unkempt hair, placed a kiss on his forehead. Hesitantly, he added, "America… stay out of trouble."

Something clicked in America just then, because even though he was small and weak- a profit venture for England, he was sure- the sight of him turning around and heading towards the ship made his throat feel strange. Not sore, but small and constrained.

"Go well," America waved to England, and his voice sounded unstable.

"Stay well," England responded instantly, turning to face him once more, "Stay well, America."

America watched from the dock as England climbed the ramp onto the ship. Perhaps he would wave to him, but that seemed unlikely because he was gone to the other side of the ship, away from his view.

Within moments, he heard a great groaning as the ship began to uproot the anchor and catch wind. He watched until the tip of the sail had disappeared over the horizon.

When it was finally gone, he wiped his eyes.

July, 1776

The room was filled with the sound of ink on paper, paper on desk, the large swoop of John Hancock's signature, until he turned on his heel and America couldn't help but let out a gleeful gasp. The rest in line dropped their names like inky raindrops and with the focus in the room on those who signed, America inched his way up to the desk and stepped into line.

By the time he got to the front, he came face to face with Washington who, upon seeing him, donned a look of surprise.

"Alfred," he said, though it was a title America was not yet used to, "What are you doing?"

America pretended to appear taken aback- but he knew very well what Washington was referring to, "I'm signing my name, sir."

Gesturing for him to step out of line and join him to the side of the desk, he pulled America out of line, his hands returning to their stately, folded position before the paper itself. His demeanor did not once waver as he stared America dead in the eye, a glare to melt steel, making the latter feel his knees go weak.

Calmly, collectively, Washington asked him, "And under what name will you sign? Will you pick up the quill and write The United States of America?" He put a final emphasis on the word, his name, what he really responded to and had been called that by England himself.

"No," America said coolly, "I would write Alfred Jones."

A sigh escaped Washington's lips and America stood idly, unable to find more words, perhaps a convincing explanation, but he knew Washington would have none of it. Seeing his distraught expression, Jefferson stepped away from his position beside the Declaration as others signed, and came to Washington's aid.

"Is something wrong, Sir? Alfred?" Jefferson eyed them both from his enormous height, looking from Washington, then to America himself, raising an eyebrow.

Washington shook his head, "Alfred would like to sign the Declaration," he stated matter-of-factly, "I did say he was allowed to come here and watch, as he requested, but I think signing is an act… unsuited for him."

America dropped his gaze, feeling his face flush with heat as Jefferson seemed to do everything but lift his lead glare. Washington and Jefferson, among a few, select others, were the only people who knew of America's special status- he was a special case, as Washington referred to him when others would ask why a boy seemed to be eternally at his side, a father and son presense.

"I'm afraid you ought not to sign, Alfred," Jefferson, with a hint of empathy- but certainly not pity- striking his voice, said, his lips a straight line.

In a moment of weakness and exasperation, America huffed, the child he was, "But I believe in everything you do! And you can't say I'm not old enough because age isn't the same with me. I'm just as capable- I want to fight, I will fight for our cause, Sir." His voice cracked uncomfortably, because though he had seen several generations of man, being far older than even the oldest man in the room, Franklin, his body was still that of a child's willing to contradict his many years.

Jefferson's gaze on him did not falter, "Do not embarrass yourself. I believe you are just as passionate as we are, but in signing their names," he gestured to the men still signing, "They are accepting that if we fail, it will be they who die first."

America spoke without thinking, "I would die for this."

Washington smiled softly, "I know you would. But you can't die, and that makes you different from us. If you are allowed to inconsequentially write your name, it means nothing to those who can lose their lives."

America had nothing meaningful left to say, felt hot shame fill his heart like glowing coals, and he croaked out a few words, his throat pinhole tight, "Forgive me, Sir."

Jefferson stepped away, shook the hand of someone nameless in America's eyes while Washington rose from his seat, "There's nothing to forgive, Alfred. You've done nothing wrong. And maybe, in time, your efforts will be of the utmost use."

Settling himself in his seat, he knew that if his immortality would prevent him from some things, he would use it elsewhere where it would be of invaluable benefit.

December, 1776

Overlooking the valley, covered in ankle-deep mud, in limbo between liquid and ice, America stood atop a hill, wrapping his body in the small square of cloth he called of a blanket. He sighed and his breath turned to a puff of visible heat in the air. The trees bare, branches jutting into the skyline like scars of lightning, blanketed the ground below, and behind him, the hill hid the tents propped up and men mingling quietly.

He heard labored footsteps climbing the hill from behind him, but he didn't turn.

"Jones." America recognized his voice as Hamilton, young like he, but wise beyond his years.

"Captain Hamilton," America greeted, nodding at him. Hamilton's own forceful and eager drive reminded America of his own, but unlike himself, Hamilton was allowed to fight, and in fact, sought it, desiring glory like a starving man's craved a meal.

Into his hands fell a musket, the metal icy, the wood damp, and the sheer weight of it made America stumble. He found Hamilton's eyes, twinkling and hiding a smirk that his face not dare show. America's jaw nearly slackened as he looked from the weapon that Hamilton had gifted him and back again to the giver.

Nodding, Hamilton spoke in an almost regal fashion, "General Washington is requesting that you fight with us in Trenton," he paused, his eyes softening as he looked at him, trying to discern his expression, "That is, if you'd like to."

Given that America only traveled with Washington for, ironically, safe-keeping, in an effort to prevent him from carelessly being captured elsewhere, he wore a soldier's uniform but held no weapon nor any rank. When battle would ensue, it was America's job to hide, to protect himself and identity. One look, and England himself would identify him, and suddenly the nation himself would be a particularly valuable hostage.

Listening and watching his own citizens die brutally from a distance was something America would never forget- but even worse, not being able to do anything about it.

He tightened his grip around the musket, feeling natural and heavy in his hands, "Yes."

January, 1777

"No, what I can't believe is that you let him fight! Alexander, do you have any idea what would've happened had he been captured?"

"But he held his own, and we won the battle, General. Is it really unreasonable that he-"

"What's unreasonable is that you defied my orders to keep him out of harm's way at all cost. I would've expected more from you."

America had never been in, nor did he ever expect to be in again, a situation as horribly uncomfortable as this. At the end of a table, sitting quietly while Hamilton received the reprimand of his life for something rather out of his character, America listened intently, his ears ringing when they were silent, burning when they spoke.

Hamilton scowled to himself, probably writing out a million reasons in his head about why he was right, had done no wrong. America anticipated that Hamilton would be blaming him for this, that America could've refused to fight, but no such accusations had been made.

But really, he didn't regret, not for a moment, taking the musket and crossing the Delaware, marching through the snow on to morning, and claiming, sweet, beautiful victory for an army falling apart- a victory well needed. He hadn't fired but a few bullets, probably not to any target. Of course it was nerve-wracking, terrifying, an act painful to do, but there was something about being there that he felt… connected to the soldiers; a ludicrous thought, but maybe being there gave the soldiers the will they needed.

"The soldiers are drawn to Alfred," Hamilton finally said, after minutes of silence scalded the air, "They all wanted to talk to him, they felt more confident in his presence, the weather affected them less. It sounds demented, I know, but I think that- being who he is- he gave the soldiers something they had abandoned long ago." Hamilton looked up at Washington, whose expression no longer seethed with anger, "America gives them hope."

For the first time, someone had called him by his real name, someone he really was. Because his name, his country, he, America the country- not Alfred- had taken up arms for the tangible grasp of victory, for liberty and freedom. He and the men he and Washington shared (because they were as much America's as they were their commander) came clean to a glorious triumph because of the crazy thought that maybe he really did radiate an encouraging power.

Washington took a moment before replying, "Perhaps that is true." Hamilton inwardly beamed as the general continued, "America may join us in battle if it will encourage a victory. But the instant our luck begins to run out, get him out of harm's way as soon as possible. Those are my orders."

America stifled a grin; not only had Washington- who was so wary about his safety that he called him Alfred even in private- called him America, but was also allowing him to march with the men and boys who were falling to the ground, dotted with bullets, for him, for his existence, for his prosperity. He was given permission to fight for himself, for self preservation, for all his people. With him, with Washington, Hamilton and the likes, surely they would succeed.

July, 1778

Thick with smoke, the air burned a dingy, grey tint, blotting out the light of candles and turning them dull. The sound of mugs clanking against wood, men talking slowly, grumbling into their drinks like they were talking to the rum within was the only general sound filling the sparsely populated tavern. America took a long drink from his own mug, the foam collecting around his lips as the bitter liquid stung his throat. Up until very recently, America had found no use for drinking, but as of late, with the war's tides being so unsure and his nerves constantly on fire with anticipation, a soldier had recommended that he sneak off, find somewhere to down a couple ales.

Had it been a year earlier, a tavern would've laughed in his face- what a young boy, out on the town during this time of night?- and handed him something weak. His friends had recommended something strong, something to knock him out and get some sleep, for God's sake, and so here he was, a stubble on his chin, a drink hearty enough for sailors in hand. He was nearly about to take another drink when he heard a painfully familiar voice that hadn't touched his ears in decades.

"That's a little strong for a boy like you, non?"

"Francis!" America cried in surprise, drawing attention to himself. France flipped his blonde hair over his shoulder and slid into a chair beside him.

"It's been so long," France droned melodramatically, "Who knew I'd be the one to help you rid yourself of that Englishman?" He laughed, "Actually, no one's more qualified to do the job than I."

He leaned back in his chair, trying to get the attention of the bartender, "Do you have wine, by chance?" When France received a shake of the head, he turned back around, "Oh, never mind, then."

America was still shocked by France's appearance here, of all places, a marvelous coincidence. "Francis," he asked, cautious to still use his human name around public ears, "Are you fighting here?"

"Oui," France smirked, tugging at the collar of his uniform, "I'm quite dashing, aren't I? As soon as I heard we were sending troops over, I hopped on the first ship I saw, and here I am. It's a good chance to see your brother, too." France reached across the table, snatching America's drink from him and taking a sip. He made a face of disgust and set it back down, "Though Canada- excuse me, Matthieu- is fighting for the wrong side, I might add. Not that he has much of a choice, anyway."

"Wait a minute," America held up a hand to stop him, "Your boss is letting you fight?"

"Uh, of course," France stated, "Why wouldn't he?"

"Oh," With a sigh, America hunched over on to the table and supported his chin with his hands, "Mine let me for a little bit because I was encouraging to the troops, but after the rough winter we had at Valley Forge, he didn't want to put me at any more risk. Now he only lets me march with them to battle, but I have to hide when the fighting starts."

"Why?" Questioned France, a look of bewilderment crossing his face, "Does he not know that we cannot die?"

"He does," America answered pathetically, "But he thinks if I get captured and Britain identifies me, I'll be a hostage they can charge a fortune for."

"So you're a matter of money."

"I guess you could put it that way."

France let out a hearty laugh and leaned so far back into his chair that America was scared he'd topple over. He continued howling with side-splitting laughter until everyone in the tavern had their eyes glued to him like he had sprouted another head, but he only began to quiet when the bartender was shooting a glare as sharp as daggers at him.

"Oh, America," France grinned at the boy before him, whose face was contorted with confusion, "Can't you see that your boss has grown terribly fond of you?"

August, 1783

"America, come in here for a moment."

America still could not tire of hearing his real name. He stood up, straightening his back, brushing off his once smooth uniform that was showing signs of use as the war crawled painfully forward, but was now spiralling to a spectacular and much-needed end after Yorktown, and followed Washington into his office. Donning his best, most professional demeanor in order to mask the sheer giddiness he felt bubbling up in his chest when he was finally needed, he sat down at the table.

At the table sat many members of the Second Continental Congress, mostly those whom had recently been brought into prominence by Washington himself- among them, Jefferson, Franklin, Hamilton, Madison, Adams and Knox. Washington took a seat among them and gestured for America to sit at the one remaining chair.

Usually, meetings like these involved intense arguments, heated debates, all for America to witness, to see the realities of his nation, of himself. His presence was needed not for any other reason than to prevent miscommunications, and only a minute before, he had been excluded, forced to twiddle his thumbs in an empty room. Something told him, however, that as he sat in the unusual and rare silence that pervaded among the people who had done nothing but talk for years, the matter of this meeting was atypical.

Washington cleared his throat, and while routinely, all eyes were focused on him, America suddenly felt the gaze of each man's eyes on his own face, and somehow, it made his chest swell with a certain pride. After all these years of practically dancing to get their attention, they were scrutinizing his every movement. He stifled a smile.

"As you know, the British and the United States have organized for the Treaty of Paris to be signed on September third. But there's," Washington paused, handing an opened letter to America, "... a special request. By Britain, or rather, Arthur Kirkland, specifically."

America's heart jumped into his throat. It hadn't occurred to him that he'd have to face England again, at least not for a very long time. A wound too raw, festering with the casualties of war, with the crippling debt both of them were now in. He picked up the letter, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat.

"Start on the second to last line," Washington said, and America's eyes jumped to the base of the letter.

While my King has conceded to your requests, I have an appeal of you, General Washington: I ask that America, or- as you know him- Alfred Jones, be present during the signing of the Treaty of Paris and release his name on the document as well.

Sincerely,

The Kingdom of Great Britain,

Arthur Kirkland

America stared at the letter, rereading the words a hundred times until the words no longer looked like words and he dropped the paper onto the table. The fear of facing England was no longer a stabbing pain in his chest, but replaced with an unquenchable curiosity. In his mind, a million situations played out in his head. England apologizing for oppressing his liberty, for firing shots at his people; maybe he would give him advice on being his own country, to which America would laugh- he was a veteran by now, had been his own land since the day he was born; or maybe they would make up, go back to being as close as before. An impossibility, he realized, but a childish desire for the past ached and swelled like a wound because America had grown up far too fast.

After an eternity, America found his voice, "I suppose I'll be needing my quill."

September, 1783

While the others signed, America was separated from England by every imaginable thing, but the desk and a few paces were really the only physical barriers. In his ornate, blood red uniform, England tilted his chin high with superiority, his chest bearing dozens of shiny medals. Like his fellow Americans, (as this document was finally recognizing them as) America was wearing rather beautiful clothing, but not a uniform, and they struck a strong contrast to the British representatives.

There were many protocols in signing a treaty, as America was learning, but not paying attention to, and he tried desperately to catch England's attention by staring at him shamelessly. He shifted around on the floorboards until they creaked, cleared his throat a few times, but nothing could deter England from staring off at what really was nothing. He was frozen in place, a statue in time, and America wondered if England had ever had his portrait painted.

By the time the remaining Americans and British had signed, England's only movements had been the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

"Sign, Arthur," One of the British men commanded, and only then did England break his stoic demeanor. It stunned America that even he, a nation so young, had his boss call him not by a pseudonym, and yet that trait still held truth with England. Taking two perfectly placed steps, England leaned over the document, and with a few, swift marks, wrote Arthur Kirkland on one of the papers.

America watched as England stood up, straightening his uniform, but his shock of blonde hair askew. An urge to tell him overcame America, just so that he'd say something, so that it would be impossible for anyone, not even England, to not know that he was there, too. But he need not do anything to be acknowledged, for England's bright green eyes shifted for a split-second that lasted an eternity, and there was no doubt that he was looking at America.

Feeling suddenly very naked, but not willing to back down, he met England's eyes and for the mere second that they locked eyes, the vain tears that America had once come to fill the corners of America's eyes so many years ago, began welling up. Ashamed, America broke the eye contact, which would not come to rest upon each other's for a very long time.

"And America," Washington directed, "It is time for you to sign."

When he gripped the quill, it nearly slipped from his sweaty grasp.

This was his Declaration of Independence.

But, really, it was a long time coming, for it was only his part of the decision that came now.

England had already left him, long ago, when he departed for the first time, leaving a child on the shores of Boston, too scared to wave goodbye.

The United States of America

A/N: I hope you liked this shamelessly patriotic story that was a reasonable excuse to write about American History! Please review if you get a chance, and thank you for reviewing. Happy Independence Day!