Managed to get this finished just in the nick of time before October begins! o.O It's only taken... oh, three months, right? Hahaha... T.T

Like Nighthawks, this has a fairly abrupt ending and no endnotes/ANs – please do not think that it was cut off when I uploaded it.

...That's it, I suppose. My apologies for how long this has taken! (Still nothing compared to 2014's Align, though, jfc)

How Lucky We Are

IV

Washington is winning the war. America knows this not because of anything England says but because all his needs are seeping out of him. It is no longer adrenaline that keeps him awake, no longer nervousness that stays his hunger. He lays out the blanket and makes a small fire and debates. It's winter so there aren't many animals about but he could catch something, he's sure, or else dig up some roots; and there's snow enough for boiling into water for drinking or for broth. He doesn't feel the need for any of these things, however. He doesn't want to sleep. He doesn't even feel cold anymore. Instead he sits and stares at the fire, watching it dance. He really should put it out if he doesn't need it, the smoke might attract attention, but something stops his hand. It feels like a doorway home.

He doesn't know how long England has been gone. He is used to him being absent so even though he loves him, he doesn't really know how to miss him. He wonders where he's gone, how long he will be, if he'll come back. These are the things he used to think years ago when England went away, watching at the window, waiting for news that a storm had swallowed up his ship. This was common, of course, and a worry of his: because what would happen to him then? Perhaps he would inherit England's nationhood; or perhaps he would cease to be anything at all, go back to dust, to mud, the fields where England found him first.

He takes up the bayonet and then the red coat. He will have to take matters into his own hands – perhaps it is time, he is big, old and ugly enough and this war is wrapped around him. And England, well, he is by turns kind-hearted and ruthless, perfect, America wouldn't have him any other way, but he is fair-fucking-weather.

He's never there when you need him.

A winter's ball: The house is thick with the warm heady glow of a thousand candles, the linger of leather and lavender, the sweet stink of splashed spirits. The chandeliers twinkle and so do the ladies, their necks and their ears; and some of their fingers, although many are empty, watching, waiting. There are soldiers here, high-ranked ones from good families, and budding professionals, doctors and lawyers and businessmen. England always chooses these sorts as his company – young, educated, ruthless – because it's easy for him to blend in amongst the braincells and the bad breeding. They have a high turnover so they won't notice that he doesn't age.

George Washington is different. He knows outright: he's been in the army too long, he's seen England die and then get back up again. Most don't live long enough for this to be of much consequence but Washington is lucky in one way or another. He always stays alive.

He is skinned in his scarlet: England likes his soldiers upfront, proud of their poppy bloom, wearing their willingness to die, so he is in good company. They are clustered in their crimson around the bottom of the grand staircase, waiting. England has already greeted him, making his way through the ballroom like a moth between flames, but has since spirited away. He always makes a show of bringing the boy downstairs.

The boy, of course, is anything but. Another of England's kind, whatever they call a youngling, with the body of a teenager. It is hard to know precisely how many summers he's seen, with a face no older than fifteen, but he must be well over a century. England's other guests have no idea – they think he's a ward, a nephew, something that oughtn't be commented on – but Washington knows what he is. Who'd have thought that these beasts are born of colonial earth?

England at last reappears, making known his entrance. He is in green silk with brocade and taffeta, shimmering in the candlelight, dreamlike, totally inhuman. On his arm is America, finely arrayed in black velvet, his coat and breeches embroidered with gold. There is a lull as they descend, all eyes upon them: these people don't know but they know, all the same. They give a wide berth as they would a falling star, molten and otherworldly. There is something about America, after all. He doesn't have the eyes of a child.

Hours later the circuits have been made, drunk and dizzy, laughing too loudly. America has kept close to England all night, hanging on his elbow, a thing of beauty. He doesn't speak much except to England, disguising his silence as shyness; Washington may have had a few drinks but he knows disinterest when he sees it. They are introduced, England proud of both of them, eager to display his fine soldier and finer colony to one another; and America bobs his head obediently, thanking him for his service, but he's not really looking at him. When eyes are turned away, he steps back, tugs at England's arm, trying to entice him back upstairs where there are doors with locks. Quite a stubborn pearl indeed.

He gets his way in the end, or so it seems. They vanish and Washington thinks nothing of it. He is used to England's flightiness – on the battlefield he seems to be everywhere at once. Instead he moves through the house with natural ebb and flow of the party, the numbers dwindling. It is almost over but there will be one next week, too, and the week after and the week after that. It is an act as controlling as it is generous; Boston's gossip begins and ends in this house. These are the rooms where it happens – and this is something to be aware of, to take caution in. Sometimes you see things you don't want to see–

Like Washington, who, on this night, turns a corner and passes a door; a door which, being slightly ajar, offers a glimpse into the room beyond. The corridor is empty and from the chamber spills light and noise. He cannot help what he sees, cannot unlearn what he knows. It is not even really a surprise. In a world in which nations are men, what else are colonies for?

If only, if only, America looked as disinterested now, if only he seemed indifferent, like he doesn't really want it, then maybe it wouldn't matter. But it does matter and he does want it; England has him up against the wall, holding him under his thighs, his patent buckled shoes gleaming in mid-air. America's arms are wrapped tightly around England's neck, his head tipped back against the wallpaper, exposing his throat for it to be devoured. He is making quite a bit of noise; England, on the other hand, is silent but for his panting breath, holding himself together. They have a rhythm, they are fast and practiced, they've done this a thousand times before.

America doesn't have the eyes of a child: he pushes England's mouth from his neck, smiles at him, tilts his head, kisses him deeply. He is completely in love with him.

And what of Washington – British subject, England's soldier, born on America's soil? If he looks away now or stands watching them all night, it will make no difference.

He has seen that these creatures have hearts.

What stories do soldiers tell around campfires? The best ones have blood and sex and death; murder, revenge, wholesale slaughter. Mortality is the key here – they want stories they can relate to, the more morbid the better, because tomorrow they might be dead. Mincemeat for monsters, those are the best stories of all, the creatures that come in the middle of the night, tireless and hungry, like red stains between the trees. Oh, and the worst part (this in a whisper)! They look like humans. You can't even tell.

He has the bayonet in one hand and a lantern from the pack in the other. He left the rifle behind – too much to carry, too slow and inaccurate at close range – and he doesn't have a pistol. He is wearing the red coat. Perhaps if he's lucky, like before, he'll be captured and they'll do the work for him. He doesn't think that Hamilton would be that stupid, perhaps, but somebody is. Alas, he is not spotted, or at least not stopped, and time and space blurs into one long trek through snow and wet black trees until at last there is dawn and the smell of smoke and meat. He blows out the lantern and tosses it aside. It is still dark enough – the troops won't have stirred quite yet – but his eyes are accustomed already. He needs no light to find his way to his purpose.

(sleep no more, macbeth does murder sleep–)

He puts the knife in the back of his belt as he crosses the camp. There is little sign of life yet, though a few horses stir at his stride. Animals have better foresight than men. He is almost to Washington's tent when he is seized suddenly by the back of the collar, a hand slamming over his mouth to stop him from crying out.

"You have some fucking nerve," Prussia hisses in his ear. "What in hell do you think you are doing?"

America squirms, manages to get his mouth free. "I was captured by England's forces," he growls. "Now I have returned. Unhand me."

"I do not believe that for a moment. Why are you arrayed in his colour?"

"I came through British territory to get here. I believed it was safer."

"I see. And you escaped?" Prussia tosses him to the ground. "Or did he let you go?" His boot comes down on America's skull, grinding his cheek into the dirt. "What are you up to, you little snake?"

"I am... not up to anything!" America tries to pull his head free but can't, Prussia's heel squarely on the bone. "Is this not a war... for my independence?!"

"That is what I had heard, ja." Prussia abruptly steps off him, crouching down to his level. He takes him roughly by the hair. "But it would seem that the one who has the least interest in such a thing is you. You will make fools of France and I no longer!"

"I need to see General Washington."

"Oh?" Prussia grins, sudden and white. "I am sure that will interest him greatly. He is not very happy with you. He heard from Hamilton that you ran away during the last retreat."

"I was disorientated," America says defensively. "I got shot in the head."

"Ja? Well, I'm going to shove my bayonet up your asshole, you little–"

"Prussia." A lyrical drawl. France appears behind him, placing a hand to his shoulder. "Enough. Let him up."

Prussia snorts, grudgingly letting go of America's hair. He takes a few gold strands with him. He stands, exhaling deeply, and France takes his hand. It is not affection, it is to stay him.

"I suggest that you do not tarry here," France says benignly. "You have made your bed. It is unfortunate that you share it with Angleterre."

"I came to see Washington." America gets to his knees, then his feet. This is unfortunate, a waste of his time. He should have been in and out by now.

"To spin him your lies about being captured by the British forces?" France examines his nails. "Why not spare us all the humiliation? Go back to Angleterre, stay with him until he loses and we take you from him properly. That is what is going to happen so you might as well."

"He needs to be properly destroyed so that there is nothing for you to go crawling back to," Prussia says.

"...Destroyed?" America clenches his fists.

"Well, he is such a thorn in my side," France says lazily. "Spain's, too. This is the perfect opportunity to be rid of him. We do not have to kill him, as such, but crushing the will out of him and taking everything he has is good enough." He looks at America, his blue eyes bright. "Starting, naturally, with you – the most precious treasure he has."

"B-but... but I didn't..."

"Want this? We know." France shrugs. "But that is the interesting thing, non? You are precious to him, Amerique, but to everyone else you are worth nothing."

America's fists unfurl. He knew this already, really, but it is still a miserable shock to hear it spoken aloud. Nobody does anything for anyone out of kindness, especially not nations. Even England has ulterior motives, he's sure, even if it's only pride (or greed or lust or some other Sin). Still, would France say that to Canada...?

"That is not entirely true." A voice from the tent – Washington. "America, you are not worthless to me."

France tilts his head. America turns, finding Washington standing at the open mouth of the tent. He is fully-dressed, a little grey-faced, his eyes hard. He hasn't slept. He nods once to France and Prussia.

"I will handle this." Then, to America: "You had better come inside."

America slinks in past him without a word, the bayonet cool and solid against his spine. France and Prussia are left outside hand-in-hand; too bad for them, they'll have to find some other carcass to caw over. They'll be back, perhaps, when Washington has a knife in his throat and America is long gone.

"Why are you saying kind things to me now?" he growls as Washington joins him, closing the tent. He feels rather cornered, all the same, with nowhere to run if he fucks up (or, indeed, if Washington goes for him first – there is a pistol on the desk, a ceremonial sword on the chair, a rifle propped in the corner).

"I am not being kind," Washington replies. "Far from it. I am stating a fact. To anyone born on this soil, you are not worthless. You are America, after all."

"And yet you treat me with contempt."

"I rather think the feeling is mutual." Washington eyes his scarlet coat with disgust. "I heard from Alexander what you did."

America scowls. "I was shot in the head," he says again. "I was confused, I–"

"No, you ran deliberately. Alexander is very thorough in his correspondence."

The man writes like a demon, it is true, and has an extraordinary memory for the smallest detail. He should have killed him.

"Whatever would the men say," Washington adds coldly, "if they were to see you in that colour?"

America raises his chin. "You wore this colour once. I saw you myself."

"I am amazed you remember anything of that night. Of me, at least. Your attention was certainly... elsewhere."

"So what if it was?" America snaps. "Who the hell are you to dictate to me what I can and cannot do?! I have been with England for almost two hundred years – I will not be parted from him by a few measly humans who refuse to pay their taxes! I will outlive you all and then what will it matter? I love him – you cannot burn it out of me!"

"You are selfish and spoiled," Washington says calmly. "You know nothing of sacrifice or of duty."

"And you know nothing of loyalty!" America wrenches the bayonet from the back of his belt, flinging himself at Washington. "After all he has done for you – for us both!"

Washington ducks aside, the bayonet missing by a mile; and America stumbles against the canvas, righting himself, his fingers sweaty on the grip.

"You are a fool," Washington says, backing towards the desk. "His grasp about your throat is so strong that it strangles all sense from you."

"And what will you do with me?" America hisses. "Kill me – or do you need Hamilton to do it for you?"

Washington says nothing, eyeing him coldly, and America feels his temper spike again at his silence, his snub, swinging forwards once more with the blade. Washington takes it on the arm, knocking him away, and there is no blood but the wool tears at the elbow. Washington moves back, snatching up the sword from the chair, brandishing it before him. America exhales heavily, observing. He can't get near him now.

"That isn't fair," he says.

"This is not a game."

"You are the one who uses me as a pawn!"

"You think that you have been treated badly?" Washington snorts. "You, who have lived in comfort as England's pet, willingly turning your back on the struggles of your people–"

"They are not my people!" America shouts, his voice strangled. "You may call yourselves 'Americans' all you want, you can wrap yourselves in this wretched flag, you can throw yourselves at my feet in worship – but I will never accept you, never!" His grip tightens on the bayonet, his eyes meeting Washington's. His voice is hoarse. "I reject you with all of my heart!"

This hits Washington right where it hurts; for the first time, he seems shocked, hurt. He blinks at America. He doesn't know what to say. The sword lowers, just a fraction, just a moment of disquiet–

America sees it and lunges, throwing all his weight behind the blade. He's clumsy, too eager to kill, to be done with it, and Washington is off-guard, perhaps, but he's stayed alive this long because he isn't stupid. He steps back, throwing out the sword – and perhaps it's only a warning but he's too precise, too clean, and it plunges into America's shoulder, scraping over the bone.

He's never felt anything like it – a sudden unfurling of fire, scorching down his arm, through his chest. He coughs on it, gasping, breathless, and buckles, hanging like a picture on a crooked nail. Washington is swift, planting his boot into his belly, kicking him clean off the blade. America crumples, going down with a bang, losing the bayonet. He lets out a shuddering breath, trying to gather himself, but his skull sings, his shoulder seethes, for a moment he barely knows where he is anymore, what he came here to do. Over the roar of the sea, he hears Washington approach him. He tries to push himself up, looks desperately for the knife, sees it glinting a few feet away; and he can't crawl so he flings himself forward and stretches and stretches–

Washington bends down and seizes him by the hair. His skull already smarts from Prussia doing the same, blonde bleeding at the roots, but he pulls back just enough to snatch up the bayonet before Washington bodily drags him to his knees. He still has the sword, shining scarlet – America sees it quivering in his hand and has no idea what he's going to do with it. He want to take no chances – none, he can't afford to – so he doesn't give Washington one, either. He brings back the bayonet and slams it into Washington's thigh.

The general gives a howl of agony, releasing his hair; and the sword goes clattering from his grasp as he stumbles back, the knife hilt-deep in his flesh. America drops, grits his teeth, forces himself to his feet. The sword, the pistol on the desk—no, no, too far, he hasn't the strength. He turns and runs, bursting out of the back of the tent, running as fast as his legs will carry him. If... if he can just get away, find somewhere to hide so his shoulder can heal–

He knows it's serious. This isn't a bullet to the head from some nameless cavalryman. His entire arm is soaked already, the scarlet wool heavy with blood, and the pain is almost blinding. He presses his palm to it as he flees into the forest, trying to stem the wound, but it comes and comes. The trees are swaying. He has no where he's going. It all looks the same, white and bleak and barren–

He can hear voices behind him, a thousand footsteps, carrying through the trembling trees. How stupid of him, his courage unstuck, to not at least finish Washington off. Bayonet in the throat – then he would have been silent. But now they'll see his footprints, they'll smell the blood, they'll drag him back to his death–

He slips and falls, trying to save himself one-handed, landing awkwardly on his elbow instead. It isn't mud, it's snow, but it's gone hard and sharp overnight and it tastes of iron. He lies still for a moment, panting, gathering his strength, and out of the corner of his eye he can see the bloom of red on the crust and the bristle of blue between the trees. They haven't been long in catching him up. He's really in no condition to run.

"Take him alive!" one shouts. "General Washington's orders."

"Alive?" snorts another. "Looks like there's barely any life left in him..."

"Bringing back a body is better than nothing. Do not allow him to escape!"

They've closed him in. There's a full circle of them, bright blue like a bruise, and they advance on him slowly, cautiously, as though he's a wild animal. He starts to get up, it's more effort than he has to spare, and the back of his skull meets with the butt of a rifle.

"Stay down." Low, commanding – he knows that voice anywhere.

He catches his breath. "Eng–?"

The crack of the rifle goes off over his head, deafening, and the soldier before him convulses and crumples. There is a moment of stunned silence – America lifts his head just enough to see that the others are badly wrong-footed, staring at their fallen comrade in disbelief – but England gives them no time to mourn. He has a rifle with a bayonet attached, another knife in his belt and a sword and he is quick and ruthless. There are fifteen soldiers and he kills them all: it's a blur, he rips open throats and smashes in skulls, guts one open like a fish. No motion is wasted, he can hear them behind him, every breath they take. They don't stand a chance.

When the last one falls, he turns to look at America. He's covered in blood but he isn't wearing red. He's in blue. America thinks he's hallucinating. It can't be—it can't be England, not now, not so miraculous, not wearing Washington's colour–

"It's me," England says, shushing his babbling. "I was infiltrating Washington's camp."

"Wh-why?"

"To kill him." England frowns. "But then you had to go and be stupid about it."

"Y-you... you are not angry?"

"I am furious," England says, quickly pulling off his cravat, wrapping it tightly about America's shoulder. "But there is time enough for that. Right now you are in danger, you idiot boy."

"I... I'm sorry, England, I just... I-I thought if I got rid of Washington–"

"I know. That was my logic, too – but you ought to have left it to me." England looks at him with concern. "You are badly injured. You need to rest."

America clutches at him. He feels so weak all of a sudden, terrified and bleeding. "England, am I... dying?"

"It is serious," England says, "because Washington gave it to you – but you will recover. Humans survive worse." He kisses America's forehead. "Now come on – we haven't much time. The bastard will be after us himself."

He rises, taking America's elbows, pulling him up; and then he begins briskly away, taking up the nearest abandoned rifle. America stumbles after him, struggling to keep pace. His legs are trembling – shock, fear, pain, relief – and they're going uphill, the snow turned to slush with half-frozen blood. He takes his hand from his throbbing shoulder, trying to catch at England's – but he's too far ahead, distant in his dead man's blue, in another moment he'll be gone back between the trees and out of sight, overseas again, maybe. This is why one day America could no longer stand to sleep apart from him, needed his love to be physical, reciprocated, because otherwise England is like a mist and America cannot hold onto him. Even if England is rough, if it hurts, he can clutch at him, he doesn't have to let him go–

"America."

England has stopped, watching him worriedly. America looks up at him dazedly, his breath coming hard.

"You are weaving like a drunken sailor." England comes back to him, touching his face. "Losing too much blood, I'd wager."

America shakes his head free. "I-I am quite well, I assure you–"

"We need to move quickly. I shall carry you." At this, England hoists him onto his back without much ceremony, holding him under his knees. "Hold on around my neck."

America does so, though his arms are numb and he hasn't got much grip. England isn't a particularly big man, average height, rather slender, but he is strong, moving upwards through the snow with America's dead weight without effort. America rests his head against his shoulder blade. He can smell the familiar earthen burn from the blue wool. This is not England's scent. This is Washington's.

"...England?"

"Mm?"

He closes his eyes. "Do you love me?"

"Of course I do, America." England's voice is calm but weighted, wary. "What–?"

"Good." America sighs it against his shoulder. "I... I love you too, England, I really... I–"

"Pray do not talk like that," England says. "This blue coat is not your deathbed. You will be alright, I promise – and that besides, I will not leave you again." He tightens his grasp under America's thighs as he says it. There is no way that he can fall.

America says nothing more, drifting in and out of wakefulness as they make their way back through the forest. He doesn't recognise the scent – they are not near Boston and this isn't the way he came. England is hyper-aware of being followed, naturally, and must be taking an alternate route. It takes a long time but he is tireless; his footsteps do not falter even where the ground is at its iciest. This must be a true nation, America thinks (because he's half-delirious), a creature that neither man nor nature can get the better of. England is the one who belongs in whispered campfire weavings, between trees, tireless and hungry. He is the one who should be in red.

It is nearing sundown when they finally begin to approach the remains of the house, the telltale gravel of the old pathway glinting through the snow. England stops quite abruptly, jolting America awake.

"I can smell horses," he says in a low voice. "...Can you walk?"

America nods and he puts him down, taking a firm hold of his arm. With his free hand, he draws his sword. America is very still next to him, straining to hear, to smell, to see. He cannot deny the sudden terrifying feeling that they are not alone.

"I may have miscalculated," England hisses. "I had thought that circling the place and approaching from the rear might throw the bastards off..."

America clutches at his sleeve. "England... have we–?"

"Walked into a trap? I fear so."

"We should not have come back here." It seems so obvious now, in perfect hindsight, but England shakes his head.

"This is as good a hiding-place as any. I am on the backfoot." He exhales through his nose. "...I would tell you to run but they would catch you."

The reality of this dawns on America. He's never heard England talk like this; never heard him sound so... defeated–

"Then what are you going to do?" he asks. "Just... hand me over to Washington?!"

"Of course not," England snaps. "I will never surrender you to him as long as there is breath in my body."

"Then perhaps he will simply kill you."

"He cannot and he knows it. I, however, can kill him – and so can you." England starts to move again, pulling America along after him. "Now stay close. It is the only way I can protect you."

They move through the trees, the blackened skeleton of the house appearing suddenly through the evening's gathering mist. There is no sign of life but England is right – there is definitely the smell of horses and of gunpowder, too.

"Perhaps they have already passed through," America says, "finding it empty–"

"Washington wouldn't leave this place unguarded." England slings the rifle at him. "Load it and be ready."

America knows he isn't a very good shot but doesn't dare argue, his hands trembling as he works on it as quickly as he can, England standing before him like a shield. His shoulder screams, stiff and torn open, and once or twice his grip slips and he almost drops the gun in the snow–

A shot goes off suddenly, echoing like thunder between the trees, and the bullet hits England right in the neck with a spray of blood. He barely flinches, however, taking a step back with the impact, perhaps, but little more than a grunt of discomfort passes his lips. He tilts his head and wipes away the blood on his sleeve.

"Somebody is rather overexcited," he says coolly. He straightens again. "...Or was that a stray?"

A pause.

"He is correct." Washington emerges on horseback from between the trees, flanked by a few of his aides. Hamilton is not among them. "You need to fight up close."

England looks directly at him. "Is that an invitation, George?" He grins. "Or simply an admission that your men are poorly-trained?"

Washington says nothing, simply raises his hand; and from between the trees burst dozens more soldiers in blue. They have ditched their rifles – instead they have bayonets and swords, flashing like running water as they charge.

"Get inside the house," England hisses at America. "Try and get a clear shot at Washington. Go!"

America nods, scrambling away clutching the rifle. He hears Washington shout something after him but it drowns beneath the clanging of steel as the first of the soldiers come into contact with England. He closes his ears against the singing of blades on icy air, the thunk of bone, the screams of dying men. It isn't worth their while – surely England cannot be carved into pieces without the permission of his king.

The wooden staircases are burned away to nothing but the stone slabs of the back passageway used by servants is still intact. He hurries up it, the rifle over one shoulder, and kneels at the top of the decimated landing. There isn't much of the outer wall left intact, leaving him open, so he keeps as low as he can. He hasn't got a very clear line of view towards Washington and he knows he won't be able to hit him, not from here, not with his injury. But there is nowhere else to go, the floor burned away, gaping into the gutted ground floor. Instead he watches England, already surrounded by dead soldiers like a fairy ring. Washington would call them off if he had any sense, what a waste of men–

But he looks at Washington and sees no trace of emotion whatsoever on the general's face. He's seen too much of this, who lives, who dies. He knows precisely what it costs.

And then a soldier gets lucky. He gets his sword past England's and manages to plunge it right through him. England stumbles, shocked – and it won't kill him, of course, but it hurts and it's just enough to give the others a much-needed moment to gather themselves. In a split-second they have aligned themselves into syncronised slaughter, plunging their swords through him at all angles, through his ribs and his back and his chest and his belly, and they leave them there and step back and suddenly America realises that Washington must have briefed them. This was planned – because the only way to stop a monster like England from healing is to leave the weapon in his body.

Even with the weight of twenty swords, however, England does not go down. He stands buckled, still clutching his own blade, breathing heavily, bleeding and bleeding. His coat is turning violet. Nobody moves, nobody speaks, not even Washington. Probably they had not counted on him still being conscious, let alone standing, and now they don't know what he'll do if they go near him.

What he does, in fact, is look up at America. He cannot speak because he has a throatful of blood, already welling over his bottom lip. His eyes are the only green thing America can see in this place (the wallpaper used to be that colour, yes, and so were the trees and his clothes that night–). Everything else is white or blue or red.

Do what it takes–

America raises the rifle and shoots him in the head. Even with his lousy aim, his shaking hands, it's a clean shot and England goes down like a ton of bricks on the swords. America doesn't even watch him fall, sprinting back down the stairs and out into the snow. England's assailants have fallen well back, unarmed, alarmed. America steps past them and throws the rifle aside, kneeling next to England's body. He's dead but America can see the shattered bone beginning to repair itself beneath his matted hair already. He begins to attend to the swords instead, pulling them from him one by one, sending them cartwheeling in crimson over the snow. Behind him, he hears Washington dismount at last; then the uneven footsteps as he limps towards him. The wound to his thigh must be bad.

"I have shot down your Icarus, general," he says. "Now you can capture him safely."

Washington crunches to a halt. "You mean to tell me... that this was your plan all along?"

"Of course. How else to lure him to you?" America pulls out the last of the swords and turns to Washington. "It is not my fault if you did not trust me. I am America, after all. You should have known better."

Washington does not appear particularly moved. "It is true that I have long considered that you would one day betray him," he says coldly, "but I think you are an opportunist rather than a strategist."

America smiles. He looks at the tourniquet tied tightly about Washington's thigh. "With all due respect, so is your precious Alexander Hamilton," he says, "and so are you."

"You attempted to kill me."

"And you I." America stands up. "What does it matter now that you have England in your grasp? You can use him to bargain with the king."

Washington says nothing for a moment. Instead he nods for his men to hoist England to his feet, which they do, holding him under his arms. He revives at a truly terrifying rate, already regaining consciousness. He shakes his head, disorientated.

"You shot me in the skull, you little bastard," he growls. "Warn me next time..."

"Oh, England, about that." America turns back to him, putting his arms around his neck. "I'm afraid there has been something of a change of plan."

"Has there indeed."

"Yes. You are going to be our prisoner now." America looks him right in the eyes. "I really think that is the best way of settling this, don't you?"

England says nothing. America hangs on tighter to him, nuzzling into his damp coat.

"England," he says against his neck, "you understand, don't you...?"

"Rest assured that I understand perfectly," Washington says behind him; and suddenly one of the discarded swords comes through him from behind, pinning him to England's body.

America balks, his voice sticking in his throat, clutching at the back of England's coat. England seems like he can barely feel it, blinking once.

"You are the Icarus," Washington says, pulling back the sword. He tosses it aside and seizes America by the back of his collar. "You think yourself above me, dressed in your sunfire scarlet. If this is the only way to protect our legacy then so be it."

He drags America off England, throwing him backwards. The teenager stumbles, clutching at his wounded middle, but like England he does not go down, his breath rasping as he fights to stay standing.

"But I have burned your wings off once," Washington says, moving between America and his wavering view of England (shell-shocked, still held upright by Washington's men). "Tell me, America... is this how you imagine death?"

He has a pistol. He has good aim and a steady hand and a clear shot. He does not hesitate.

(If it had been different, if he had ended up at England's mercy, somehow he knows that England would not do it–)

"Wait!"

England. Maybe. It doesn't matter. Washington sets him on fire and hours later he hits the snow, it seems. The sky is grey, almost night. He can't breathe.

Distant shouting. The sound of a body hitting the snow (dead or alive?), perhaps his own, an echo. Suddenly England is next to him, kneeling, cradling his head. Crying. He's never seen him cry before. He didn't think it was possible–

"England," he whispers, "I... I didn't..."

"Ssshh." England takes off his coat, already drenched, and presses it against him. "It's alright, I'm here–"

America reaches up towards his face. His hand is slick and scarlet.

"Oh," he says. "Oh–"

"It's just the coat," England says desperately. "It's the red coat – that's why it's red, so you cannot..."

He takes America's hand and presses it to his cheek. For the first time, America realises how much he's grown. England's hand barely covers his anymore. He laughs. It tastes like copper.

"What?" England smiles at him – tense, heartbroken. He knows.

"Me."

"You...?" Clench.

"I-I'm sorry I... I didn't–"

"No, no, you did nothing wrong." England pulls him up, cradling him close. "I am the one... who did not protect you–"

"B-but you... love me, England, d-don't you?"

"Of course I do." He holds him tighter. "...Isn't that enough?"

"Mm." America breathes out. "England, you... you used... to be so..."