England was startled out of his sleep. He dreamily looked around his dark room and listened. Nothing. Was it just a dream? He was sure he had heard a noise. A loud boom...or a bump...or something like that. Flashes of white light suddenly filled the room. England rolled over towards the window. It was raining. He rolled back over and pulled the covers over his head. Probably just thunder. He was so tired for some reason. The sound of soft rain and the feeling of the bed sheets around him swiftly began to fade as he welcomed sleep again.

BOOM!

England opened his eyes and sat up in bed. That was not thunder. He was not sure what it was, but he knew it had come from somewhere in the house. As a precaution, he reached for the scabbard under his bed. He preferred sword blades to the new firearms. Even though he was still partly asleep, just touching the handle on the hidden weapon made him more alert.

In the next few seconds he heard a loud crashing noise followed by the sound of something, or someone, moving very quickly through the house. England could tell as the movement became louder, that the intruder was coming closer. All this happened so quickly, that England had almost no time to react. Was he under attack in his own house? It would not be the first time. He quickly drew his sword from its sheath just as the intruder rammed into the other side of his door. The door shook, but held. England was ready to leap out of bed. He was cornered, but he was not going to let that stop him from facing whatever enemy was on the other side of the door. He was prepared to battle to the death.

Before he could jump into action, the door was rammed once more. In an instant, the heavy wooden door came crashing down on the ground. With no time to think, England gave a battle cry and began to charge. He would have to fight blind. His eyes had still not quite adjusted to the darkness. He couldn't see his foe, but he swung his sword in desperation all the same. He didn't feel any contact on the sword, but he felt something heavy strike him in the stomach. The force of the blow knocked him back on his bed. He dropped the sword as he fell backwards. This was it. He had been taken off guard by his unseen enemy, and now he was going to pay for it. He prepared himself for the worst as he landed.

"ENGWAND!"

England heard a small voice shriek out his name. Dazed from being woken so suddenly and from the hit he had just received, he laid on his bed for a moment in confusion. Where was the intruder? Where was the sound of a battle? All was quiet except for the rain, the sound of England's heart pounding with adrenalin, and a kind of whimpering noise.

England tried to sit up, but he felt something heavy resting on his stomach. Was it the thing that had hit him? Then he realized whatever was on him was moving too. It was shaking and clinging to him. He could hear the whimpering noise coming from the shivering lump laying on him. Wait. That voice that called out his name as he had fallen back. He knew that voice, didn't he?

"America?" England whispered. "Is that you?"

As if on cue, lightening flashed again and the room lit up just enough for England to see that the unwelcome intruder was indeed his newly acquired colonies. A small boy was laying on him with his arms wrapped as far as they would go around England's torso. England sat up with a jerk. Now he remembered. He wasn't in his house in Europe at all. He had been in the New World taking care of America for the past week or so.

England tried to restrain himself as he growled down at the toddler in his lap. He had never wanted to strangle a child so badly in his life! He had to attack him verbally, at the very least. If he didn't he knew he would surly murder little imp.

"What is the meaning of this?" England demanded. "What on earth are you doing out of bed at this hour? And why are you destroying the house? You very nearly gave me a heart attack!"

England was no longer going to hold his frustrations of the past few days inside himself. He was beginning to wish he had just let France have this brat. Maybe it wasn't too late to give him back. He'd pay good money to see France try to handle America. He now remembered why he was so tired.

England was still new at being a "big brother." That was how England had established the relationship between him and America. Officially, England was America's guardian. It was England's job to look after the boy. However, England had never had any experience taking care of young children. He was finding out how difficult it actually was the hard way.

America was hyper, rough, and demanding. England had learned early on that he had to keep a close eye on America, or he would get into everything. It seemed that by the time England had finished cleaning up one of America's messes, America had created a new one for him to work on. Once, England had taken his eyes off of the boy for a few seconds to focus on preparing a meal for them both. When he had turned around, America (who had been happily playing on the floor next to England) had vanished. When England had found him, he had been climbing to the top of a large bookshelf. England had arrived just in time to catch America as he had lost his grip and fallen off of his pretend mountain. Immediately after, England had also had to shield the boy from being crushed by the avalanche of books that followed. By the time England had finished putting the last book back on the shelf, America had once again, quietly slipped away. After combing the house, England had finally found him outside playing in a mud puddle. By that time, the food that England had been cooking had been burned.

And so it went on like that. Day after day, America would be running this way and that, while England struggled to keep up with him. Where in the world did America get all that energy? Like many boys, America loved to play outside. He also loved to play rough and tumble games like wrestling. England tried to oblige him on these whims in the hopes that the boy would eventually tire out with all the activity, but the only one who ever got tired was England. America was very powerful for such a small boy. Unfortunately, America was also not quite aware of his own strength, yet. (That was another reason England tried to encourage America to remain outside: To keep him from accidentally smashing things in the house) America and his super-human strength nearly killed England during their "play fights." At the end of every day, England would be ready to collapse, and America would still be running around like a mad boy.

All the outdoor activity also meant that America would get dirty often…which consequently meant that England had to clean him often. Bath time was a nightmare. America hated baths with a passion. Just trying to catch America while he was attempting to escape his soapy fate was an ordeal in and of its self. Even if England was successful, he had to use all his strength to force the struggling boy into the tub long enough for him to be in a halfway presentable state.

In the rare cases that America wasn't trying to run off somewhere, he would cling to England. In those times, England was glad to get a break from all the running around, but he would have new problems to deal with. It seemed like America only stayed near England if he wanted something:

"I'm hungwy. Tell me a stowy. Can we pway a game? I'm thirsty. Can I have a biscuit? Can I have a piggy-back wide? Sing me a song. Can I wide on your shoulders?"

The worst, however, was when America was in a "questioning mood." As children grow up, they start to ask questions about life. America was a very questioning boy when he got started. Give young America enough time to think about life and one would spend the rest of their life answering his questions (or attempting too). Some of America's questions sounded thoughtful enough for a philosopher:

"Where did I come fwom? Why am I awive? Why do bugs and stuff die? Can I die? What happens when you die?"

Others, though, sounded just plain ridiculous:

"How can da sun fwy wif'out wings? Why don't we have wings? How come da sun can fwy wif'out wings and we can't? Could we make our own wings? If you dwank all da tea fwom a cup as big as da tub, would you die? If I gave tea to a wabbit, would it die? If I ate lots of carrots, would I gwow wong ears wike a wabbit? Can fwogs go ta heaven? Can we eat fwogs? Why don't we walk on our hands instead of our feet?"

England now knew why adults had invented the phrases, "Just because," and "I'll tell you later." He used them often.

It was America's natural curiosity that would cause more trouble than anything else. On more than one occasion, England had had to remove bugs and/or other foreign objects from the inquisitive boy's mouth. He had to bandage America up once, because the child had wanted to see if the flame on a candle really was hot. Another time, England had ended up dismantling a part of the fence because America had gotten his head stuck between two posts in a failed escape attempt so he could go exploring. Then, there was the skunk incident which England had chosen to forget.

It was no doubt that America was a royal pain most of the time. Yet, although the kid enraged England, for some reason, England could never manage to get seriously upset with him. Part of it must have been because America was so innocent. He caused a lot of trouble, yes, but he rarely meant to. America was not a mean-spirited child at all. He was very cheerful and loving. He just didn't think about what he was doing most of the time. England couldn't get mad at him for being too young to know any better.

Another possible reason for why England was having such a hard time getting angry at the boy was probably the fact that America was just too cute. Whenever England was close to losing his temper, America would go and unknowingly say or do something sweet that would quench England's anger on the spot. For example, once England had found America playing in the mud for the umpteenth time. England had been about to have a fit.

"What have I told you about playing in the mud?"

The boy had just looked up at England with a welcoming smile and showed him his small piles of mud pies. He had announced in a proud voice:

"Wook at me, Engwand! I made pies just wike you!"

England had felt his temper going down, as pride over the fact that the boy was imitating him had begun to replace it. Quickly, England had then checked himself and tried to ignore his rising flattery. It was not the first time America had tried to copy England. America seemed to think for some strange reason, that England was a pretty amazing guy. Every now and then, America would imitate the things that England did. It was kind of cute at first, but it was starting to get a little annoying. Plus, England had wanted to hold on to his anger this time. Feebly, he had tried again to confront America for disobeying him.

"Why did you have to make pies with mud?"

Not really listening, the boy had just picked up a mud pie and eagerly held it out to England.

"Here, I made dem for you," he had added with excitement. He smiling face had looked up at his new brother. It was filled with hope for approval and acceptance of his thoughtful gift.

Poof. Anger gone.

Another good example of America's cute-shield had occurred back when England had to fix the fence he had taken apart on order to free America's head. England had been hammering the fence back together when America had come up to him, begging him to play. England had told America to wait until he was finished with the fence, but America had not wanted to wait. He had jumped on England's back to get attention. The act had surprised England and caused him to hit his finger with the hammer instead of hitting the nail. England had screamed, and America had jumped off of his back. Before England had had a chance to get some proper curses out, America had rushed to his aid.

"I'm sowy! Did you hurt yourself? I'm sowy!"

America had looked at England's red thumb with genuine concern. Fortunately, like many other little children, he had known just what to do to make it better:

"Wet me kiss it!" he had said before gently taking England's big hands into his small ones and kissing the hurt thumb. Then he had looked back at England, still worried about his fallen brother, and had said, "Is dat all better?"

Any foul words England had been planning on muttering had died in his mouth. How could he be angry at someone who could look at him that way? There were random times like these during the week that America had shown real love and affection for England. That was one thing that truly baffled England. It seemed like the boy actually liked him. For the life of himself, England could not figure out why! As far as England could tell, most of what he had done since meeting the boy was attempt to boss him around, lecture him, and create new rules for him to follow. England also knew that he had a tendency to be seen as a tyrant and a kill-joy. Because of that, very few other countries, if any, actually liked England. England had always pretended not to care about what others thought of him. As long as he was able to expand his power, it didn't really matter to him if anyone liked him…the problem was that it really did matter to England.

America was different. He seemed to be filled with unconditional love towards England. Maybe it was because he was still so innocent and trusting. England still remembered when he had first met him. America had not tried to run away from him. He had just talked to England as if he was his new best friend. When England had tried to declare his sovereignty over America, the boy had not tried to fight back as others would. He had just smiled, nodded his head and said, "Ok," as if England had just declared he was about to take the boy out for ice cream.

America's innocence and casual displays of affection always took England aback. Even if he secretly wished for it, England was not used to being liked. He was not sure how to respond to it all. Didn't the boy realize what kind of position he was in? England had the authority to treat America more like a slave than a brother, but how was he supposed to assert himself over the first person he had met in a long time who seemed to adore him with no strings attached; the first person he had ever met who was willing to affectionately call him "brother?"

That was how England's first few days as a big brother had been, constantly being exhausted and frustrated with his new sibling, but being able to do little about it. England had known all along that to keep forcing all of his anger and irritation inside of himself would not be good in the long run, but he had not known how else to handle it. Now England was telling the boy off for all it was worth. The surprise break-in to England's room in the middle of the night had been the final straw. England continued to shout at America as the boy remained huddled against him.

"How could you be so foolish? I had drawn my sword, you little twit! My Bloody Sword! I didn't know who you were! Do you have any idea what I could have done to you?"

England went on yelling until he was out of breath. That had felt good. With his built-up stress released, he was able to think more clearly. He began to realize that America was crying. England turned away from the instinct to feel sorry for him. He was not going to let this boy wrap him around his finger anymore! If America was upset because of England's outburst, he had only himself to blame for causing such a disturbance and scaring England like that.

"Stop that. I haven't harmed you. You're lucky I haven't thrown you across the room!"

America said nothing. He kept holding on to England with his face in England's bare stomach. England had been so tired that night, he hadn't even bothered to dress himself for bed properly. He had thrown off his shirt, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed on the bed. Now he was starting to feel a little chilly (and also a little wet since America was sobbing on him). England tried to pull the weeping boy off of him.

"I said stop that!" He repeated. "You are fine. Let go! You should be in bed."

America clung to England with all his might. He whaled in protest as England tried to separate them. Having no success, England released boy and studied him. He noticed that America was trembling greatly. Was America really alright? Why had he attacked England in the middle of the night like this? Was something wrong? Concern finally started to set in. England touched America and tried to get him to look up at him. But America was frozen in place (if one didn't count the shaking). England couldn't get any part of the boy to budge one inch. He tried talking more gently to him.

"I say…what's the matter? America?"

More sobbing and trembling.

"Is something wrong?" England ventured again. "Tell me."

America could do nothing but whimper. Suddenly, there was another strike of lightening and loud roll of thunder followed. America squeezed England tighter at the sound of the rising storm. England began to put two and two together.

"Is it the storm?"

Surprisingly, America shook his head, no. What was it then? Had he hurt himself somehow?

"Are you hurt?" England made a guess.

America shook his head again.

England tried to resist the urge to become impatient. He just held on to America as he cried and tried to coax any kind of information out of him.

"Did something happen? Do you feel well? Why did you rush in here like that?"

At last, America spoke through his sobs.

"I'm scared," he finally managed.

"Of what?" England softly inquired.

"I…I…I had a bad dweam," America said in-between his tears. England began to understand now.

"What was it about?" he wondered.

"I was so scared! It was goin' ta get me!"

"What was?"

"It was goin' ta get me, and I couldn't find you!"

England tried several other times to find out exactly what "it" was, and exactly what had happened in America's nightmare, but America didn't seem to want to talk about it. It was possible that America might not have completely remembered it, himself. But the details didn't matter. All that mattered was that it had really scared him. He kept repeating how scared he was over and over again. After living with the daring boy the past few days, England had begun to think that America did not have a sense of fear. Apparently, he did. England gave up trying to get a full recount of the dream. He patted the boy on the back and tried to convince him that whatever he had seen in his dream had not been real. All of a sudden, America interrupted him.

"I twied to get away, but I couldn't get out of my woom!"

"You couldn't get out of your room?" Was this part of the nightmare?

"I twied, but the door was wocked," America continued.

With an uneasy feeling, England realized this was no longer about the dream. He remembered now. England had locked the boy in his room that night. Bed time had been another mountain to climb every evening with America. It was not as bad as bath time. America put up no physical resistance to going to bed, but getting him to sleep still seemed to take half the night. America would beg for story after story. Every night, England would try to wind him down by reading his favorite books to him. He always hoped that America would just fall asleep as he read. Sometimes, after what seemed like a hundred tellings and retellings of the same stories, he would. Most of the time, though, America would show no signs of fatigue, and England would finally have to tell him outright that it was time for bed. America would then try to delay getting tucked in for as long as possible by making other requests. He would say he was hungry and ask for a snack. He would ask for a toy to sleep with. He would ask England for a song, or just one more hug. On and on it would drag.

Even after England managed to get the boy in his bed for the night, he never stayed there long. America would come into England's room all throughout each night with more requests: He was thirsty, he had to go to the bathroom, he was hungry again, he forgotten to say good night the last time, he thought he had heard something under his bed, etc. All of which were just more attempts to postpone sleep.

Yet, mysteriously, no matter how late America stayed up at night, he always managed to be up and ready to play at dawn every morning. England was losing precious sleep. That night, England had finally gotten fed up with it. When America had fallen asleep during story time that night, England had tucked him in and locked the boy's bedroom door before he had left. The boy had to learn to stay in his own room after he was put to bed. Bed time meant Bed Time. He had even locked his own door to make certain America didn't bother him.

"Why didn't you come?" America bawled. England did not quite understand the question.

"Why didn't I come?"

"I called and called, but you didn't come! It was so scary!" America began to cry with renewed energy as he recalled his ordeal. "I thought you had weft me awone! I was weally scared!"

America's words instantly took England back in time. It was as if he was looking at a younger version of himself now. England had been locked in his own room many times as a young child. He knew exactly how America felt. England now felt a sting of guilt for shutting the boy away like that. How could he have forgotten his own experiences so easily? How could he have forgotten the terror that had filled his own tiny heart when the possibility that he might be forgotten and left alone in a dark room forever had crept into his mind? Why, as he had locked America's door, had he not stopped to think of how frightened the boy might be when he discovered that he was trapped in his own room?

England hugged the trembling boy close to him, as if to try and shield him from the memories of his horrifying moments in his locked room. Inside himself, England was panicking. It's the kind of feeling that I suppose all parents get when they realize they have made a mistake in the care of their children. Even if the mistake is small, a parent could irrationally torture themselves while wondering if the small mistake would have a negative impact on their child's whole future. For all England knew, he might have scarred America for life-and for what? Just to get a few hours of a break from the boy? Some big brother he was. He didn't even deserve to be called this kid's guardian!

"I came ta your woom, but it was wocked too!" America continued.

The words cut into England. He felt his stomach churn with more guilt. He didn't want to hear anymore!

"I'm sorry," he interrupted America as he hugged him closer, "I-I apologize. I didn't mean to frighten you."

The storm, which had been getting worse, sounded off another burst of thunder before England could think of anything else to say. America screamed and tried to bury his face head further into England.

"Make it stop!" He called out. England tried to keep a tight hold on the toddler. All that squeezing and pushing was starting to hurt.

"Make what stop? The thunder?"

The sky boomed again.

"Make it stop!" America screamed again. Did America really expect him to be able to stop a thunder storm?

"I can't," he answered.

"Yes you can!" America insisted as he fought to get closer to England. In America's eyes, England could do anything!

England felt as if America was going to plow right through him. In desperation he grabbed America by his shoulders and shoved him away with all the force he could come up with. Finally, he had succeeded in pulling America off of him. He held the boy by his arms and got in his right in his face to make sure he had the boy's attention.

"No, I CAN'T!" He crossly yelled back at America, trying to make him understand.

The room lit up once more from the flashes of lightning. England saw America's face for the first time since he broke into the room. One glimpse was all he needed to know he had made another terrible mistake. America's face was pale and covered in tears. He eyes were red and wide with fear. But America's face had another look on it: hurt. America was looking up at England as if England had struck him down. England loosened his grip on the boy when he realized that his words had hurt him. He was probably scaring him, as well.

England opened his mouth to say something, but more thunder cut him off. America wiggled out of England's hold. He hastily crawled to the foot of England's bed, curled up into a ball, put his hands over his head, and continued to shake and cry all alone.

England mentally kicked himself. America had come to him for comfort and England had only made it worse. Well, it was not as if England hadn't expected something like this to happen eventually. He had to face the fact that he knew absolutely nothing about raising a child. Even if he tried, he knew America would eventually come to hate him like the rest of the world. How could he expect anything less?

The storm seemed to increase its fury once again. America's body visibly winced with each new burst of thunder. England tried to shake off his mounting depression. He couldn't just let the pitiful child cower in front of him like that! He felt like he should do something, but what? America would probably just push him away if he tried anything. Still, he wanted to be able to give some sort of comfort. He tried to remember being in America's position again. What would have calmed him down? Not knowing for certain if it would work, England opened the drawer on his bedside table. He took out a match and lit the candle on the table so that there was some light in the room. Prepared for rejection, but determined to continue, he reached out and picked up the quivering boy. England sat on the bed hugged America once more. He held America so that the boy could rest his head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I would if I could, but I can't. I can't control the weather."

America did not return the hug, but he did not push away either.

"It's scarring me," he whimpered onto England's shoulder.

"Shhh," England tried to quiet the boy, "I know. Not to worry. It will stop on its own soon enough."

Tiny America still shook in the older nation's arms. England tried rocking back and forth a little. He rubbed the boy's back and tried his best to sound gentle and strong at the same time.

"It's alright. I'm here. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, I promise."

At last, America loosened up a little. Before England knew it, America had wrapped his small arms around England's neck. He continued to cry some and flinch at the sounds of the storm, but he was clinging to England for security again. England felt as if it was a small triumph, but he didn't stop trying to ease America's fears. He kept rocking and patting him. He tried humming something. He actually had no idea what he was doing, or even if it was helping, but he kept it up since America made no objections.

After a while, the storm began to die down a little. England took a break from humming to yawn. He was starting to feel sleepy again. He rested his eyes as he rocked. He might have nodded off if America had not spoken up around that time.

"Can you sing me a song?" he asked. His voice still held a quiver in it. England groaned inwardly.

Must I?

He thought within himself. His strained throat didn't feel up to it. As if America could tell he was reluctant, the boy softly spoke up once more.

"Pwease? Just one? Da one about da gween shirts?"

"The green…" England started in confusion. Then in an instant he realized which song the boy was talking about. "Oh that one," he finished.

He debated the idea for a moment. Thunder sounded out again. America whimpered and clung tighter to England. England decided that one song would not hurt much.

"If that's what you want," he replied with a sigh. England took a breath and began to sing his old song softly:

"Alas, my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously.
For I have loved you oh, so long,
Delighting in thy company."

"Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but my lady Greensleeves?"

America nuzzled against England as he sang. His arms still held on tightly to England. England kept his own arms around America protectively. He was not used to someone depending on him like this. It was strange. Still, it was also a little nice to feel needed.

"I have been ready at your hand,
To grant whatever you would crave,
I have both wagered life and land,
Your love and good-will for to have."

The song continued on. England's voice was getting a little stronger as he went on. He really did enjoy singing, but he rarely did it, especially in front of others. England was a little self conscious about his singing. France had always teased him about his singing voice. He had said it was monotonous and unattractive. Although England would act like France was just an idiot who didn't know good music when he heard it, England was always secretly worried that France might be right. Apparently, America didn't think so. England had sung for him a few times over the past few days, and America had kept asking for more. England was beginning to feel more relaxed about his singing when he was with America. He seemed to be safe to sing what he wanted without fear of being ridiculed.

"Your vows you've broken, like my heart,
Oh, why did you so enrapture me?
Now I remain in a world apart,
But my heart remains in captivity."

America's grip around England was slowly softening. He seemed to be calming down. The storm outside was also continuing to let up. England finished the song.

"Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,
To God I pray to prosper thee,
For I am still thy lover true,
Come once again and love me."

"Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but my lady Greensleeves?"

England waited. America had stopped crying. His breathing was stalling slightly from all the sobbing, but the tears had stopped. The shaking had come to an end as well. England stopped rocking and rested his back on the head of the bed.

"There now," he spoke more cheerfully to America, "That's better isn't it?"

The boy said nothing.

"Listen," England whispered.

All that could be heard was a few left over raindrops outside. The storm had passed.

"See?" England continued as he tenderly ruffled the boy's hair, "I told you the storm would stop on its own."

America sniffed in response.

England could tell the boy was tired. He stood up.

"Why don't I tuck you back in bed?"

Almost before England could finish, America's grip returned.

"NO!" he screamed in protest.

England was startled by the sudden outburst. He had thought America had finally calmed down. Now he was threatening to go into histarics!

"I don't want to be awone!"

America acted as if he was about to return to a fate worse than death. England tried in vain to calm him once more.

"It will be alright. I give you my word I won't lock you in again. I will leave the door open wide. I could even leave a light on for you, if you wish."

America sounded as if he might start crying again.

"No! Pwease! It will come back and get me again!" America reminded England of his scary dream.

England sat down on the bed again in defeat. He was too drained to try to coax America further. He patted him on the back and made a suggestion.

"Would you rather sleep with me tonight?"

America released England and sat up in his arms. He looked up at England with a surprised, but hopeful face. It was as if he was asking, "Can I?" England smiled at the puppy-eyed boy in his arms. In the candle light, England could see that his small face was a mess. He sat the boy in his lap and took a handkerchief from his table. After wiping the boys face, and his own damp shoulder, England held the cloth to America's nose and asked him to blow. America obeyed. When he was done, England finished up and spoke to him again.

"You are welcome to join me if it will make you feel better, but just for tonight."

America gave a small squeal of delight and jumped on England's bed. He hopped up and down a few times on the mattress in celebration. What had England done? He watched as America crawled under the covers head first and began exploring the bed. It was a king-sized bed-so much bigger compared to the boy's own cradle! England sighed and moved under the covers as well. It was too late to turn back now. He gave another sigh (this time of relief) as he lay back on his pillows. He was just about to turn on his left side, when America suddenly appeared on his right. He curled up under England's right arm and snuggled against him. England was a little stunned, but he put his arm around America, seeing as how there was no other comfortable way to rest it. America yawned and closed his eyes contentedly.

England almost couldn't believe how easily America was going to sleep! Why couldn't he be that compliant every night? Oh well.

"Good night," England said as he closed his own eyes.

"Good night," America replied, and all was quiet.

A few seconds later:

"Engwand?"

England grimaced. He knew it was too good to be true.

"Hm?" he answered.

"I wuv you."

England's eyes shot open. He looked down at America. He was still in the same position. He glanced up at England and smiled before closing his eyes once more. England felt the need to answer America, but he had trouble getting the words out.

"I…er…I…love you…too…"

America nuzzled England one more time and sighed as if to let England know he had heard him. England watched as America quietly drifted off to sleep after that. He couldn't take his eyes off the boy. Did he just dream that? Did America really say what he thought he had said? How long had it been since England had heard those words? He couldn't remember. And had England really heard himself return those words?

England reached down and stroked the boy's bangs from his forehead. England found himself mesmerized by how soundly the small boy slept. Was this peaceful child really the same boy that had been driving England crazy over the last few days? He carefully tried out the words again.

"I love you."

America didn't stir. England began to realize that not only had he said those words, himself, but he had meant them. England couldn't explain why. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the boy was a source of endless stress for him. Yet, England couldn't deny that he cared for the child. Despite all his efforts to keep it from happening, England knew that he had come to love the strange, annoying toddler. He wrapped his other arm around the boy and hugged him as he slept. England was filling up with joy. He knew he wasn't alone anymore. He had a little brother now. A little brother who loved him. And England loved him, too!

For some reason, England didn't feel as tired anymore. He laid in bed for the longest time just watching America. England felt himself wanting to give this boy the best life had to offer. He didn't want him to grow up the way he had: hated by his own brothers and always under the thumb of an oppressing ruler or a corrupt religion. He wanted America to be free to enjoy his youth and to be certain that he was loved. Exhaustion eventually overtook England and his happy thoughts. The two brothers comfortably slept in that morning.

No matter how crazy kids make us, at the end of the day, when they say those three little words, it makes everything worth it! Another brotherly love story with England and America, just because I love those two so much! This time, America is younger, and believe it or not, more of a handful. England has just taken on America as his brother and is having some adventures in extreme baby-sitting. I went back to just using their country names because I like it.

Oh yeah, and about "Greensleeves," for anyone who doesn't know, it's sung to the tune of "What Child is This?" Apparently it's a really, really, really, old English song. It's so pretty. I heard it and and thought, 'Wow. Some of this sounds a lot like Arthur and Alfred's relationship.' You know, how Arthur loved Alfred like a brother, but later Alfred declared independence, and Arthur didn't want to let him go. So sad.