Crossfire

"Today will be the death of you."

"Mm."

"Tomorrow, too, I expect."

"Probably."

"And the day after that."

"Do... do we—ah! h-have to talk about it now?"

"No." England peppered kisses over his back and rubbed soothingly at the nape of his neck. "No, we don't have to talk about it now."

"Good, b-because...!" America hissed. "Stop, stop moving, I'm not ready...!"

"You're as ready as you'll ever be." England did not stop moving in the slightest, putting one hand under America's abdomen to cushion it from the edge of the desk and bracing his other hand on the desk itself, his forearm pressed against America's temple.

"Jesus H. Christ, j-just give me a second, will you?" America tried to kick back at England, his heel only scraping the shin of England's boot with very little force behind it. "England!"

"I don't have a second to give you," England hummed close to his ear. "And you don't have a second to take and neither of us has a second to waste."

He didn't pause in his rhythm at all, feeling America give in and start to rock with him, back and forwards against the desk, against England, still in his uniform because they had stayed up all night discussing this and planning that – they'd had to stay up all night because time was short, because nobody had a moment to waste, especially not them. It was near-dawn, the small office with all its pin-pointed maps incandescent with dirty oranges and grey-heather purples and splinters of gold and crimson in between. They were both exhausted, that hot sticky tiredness clinging to the inside of England's chest, his eyes gritty, his mouth sour and dry. He leaned over America as he thrust into him, pressed his aching forehead against his back.

"That's the thing," he panted, licking the back of America's neck. "We don't have to talk about it now if you don't want to but I don't see when else we'll get the chance. I assure you that the sergeant-majors and officers and generals are already rising and putting on their uniforms; next it will be the men. You'll be leaving in less than an hour, I wouldn't wager."

"Then do we have time for... for this?" America clenched his fists on the desk.

"No," England reasoned. "No, of course we don't. But this is what we want and I think we should get what we want when you'll be leaving for the continent in under an hour."

"I'll c-come back," America said breathlessly. "You know that, England. I always come back."

"I know." England leaned forwards and bit at America's ear, making him whine. "But before that, before you come back to me safe and sound, you will die. God only knows how many times you'll die – and you'll see your men die, too. They're human and they won't be as lucky as you."

"I know all that," America said in a low voice. "I've been in wars before. I've died before and I've seen my men die. It's nothing I can't... can't handle."

"Well, I want you to remember this before you go out there to die." England pressed a kiss to the back of America's neck. "Please remember this even so."

England felt his chest tighten, his breath quicken and shorten, as he neared his peak – because this was selfish as well, he wanted to remember America like this, his last (physical sweaty breathless) impression instead of having nothing but his bloodstained letters from the frontlines. He would join America at the Italian Front soon but for now these were their final moments together and he wanted to make it last, to imprint it on his mind so that he could think about this instead of America lying in the dust, cold and thirsty and bleeding to death, over and over again.

At least in the First World War, they had often had each other for company whilst dying in No Man's Land. He remembered one February night in 1918 when it had been bitterly cold and, hours earlier, they had landed a few feet from each other, both riddled with bullets, and they had held hands all night, whispering to each other. America had died whilst it was still dark and England had gone perhaps an hour later as the sun began to rise.

He had woken up in the trenches with America and Canada both leaning over him – Canada, who had been shot and killed the afternoon before.

They could die over and over again, their bodies healing and restoring themselves to a living state the moment their final breath expired, but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt, that it wasn't agony to lie in a cold field all night with four bullets lodged in your stomach. Nations could bleed and feel pain and die just as their men could.

They just could not stay dead.

America gave a cold little laugh.

"You'd have me r-remember this instead?" he panted, his voice rasping, short of breath. "This is no different t-to any other time we've... we've done it, for God's sake! Why won't this fade into oblivion alongside every—ah! everything else when I'm seconds away from being a twisted corpse yet again?"

"Won't you remember every notch in the desk?" England hummed. "Won't you remember every place my fingertips trailed over you? Won't you remember every kiss I pressed to your skin?"

"What, you want me to compose poetry about you fucking me as I lie dying?" America gave another snort of laughter.

"Well, you'll have all the time in the world then."

"Doesn't mean I'll rem-remember it," America hissed. "I'll have other things to... fucking worry about."

"No, you won't. You know that. You know what it's like to die."

England put yet another kiss to America's neck as he rocked into him and came, pressing one raised knee against America's thigh and wrapping his arms tightly around his torso, feeling that perhaps if he clung hard enough, more of him than just common, no-different sexual fluid would flow into America and stay there – that he could sink into him and take up residence within his heart, hidden until the time came for America to die and then he'd surface to keep him company in the first of his final hours.

Time and time again he could sit with him in No Man's Land, holding his hand as he died another assembly-line death.

"You came too quick," America huffed, squirming underneath him. "I didn't finish. You're useless at this, you know that? You can't ever hold on."

"Don't be unkind. We've time enough." England pulled out of him and tugged him upright by the back of his collar. "You ought to be flattered."

"I was at first," America replied snidely, turning around and hitching himself up onto the desk's surface one-handed. "But it happens all the time."

"That's because you let your mind wander and don't keep up with me," England said shortly. "It's a bother for me too, you know. Now help me up."

He put his arms around America's neck so that he could be lifted into his lap, his knees resting on the desk either side of America's hips; he fidgeted with belts and waistbands for a moment, pushing his uniform trousers and his underwear down his thighs, before settling with America's dick pulsing at his entrance.

"Y-you're not ready," America pointed out, wrapping his arms around England's back.

"We don't have time," England hissed, beginning to impale himself; it was difficult and painful but he'd made his decision. "It's either this or a hand – mine or your own."

"You could blow me," America suggested, grimacing a little bit, the friction clearly making it uncomfortable for him, too.

"Too late." England exhaled deeply, clinging tighter around America's neck, as he seated himself properly on the younger man's lap – it ached as it always did, America filling him so completely that he didn't feel he would be able to move any further inside him without pushing into his guts (it was an exaggeration, of course, but that was how it felt). "B-besides, this... this is what I want, alright?"

"England." America pressed his palm to England's forehead and pushed back some of his gold hair. "I'll come back." He kissed him between his thick eyebrows. "Don't I always come back?"

"You always come back different." England shook America's hand off, looking away. "And don't deny it."

"I wasn't going to but..." America took England's hips and started to move him himself – England let him do the work, preferring to sit unresponsively in his lap whilst not meeting his gaze. "...B-but," America went on, dipping his head a little, his breathing quickening again, "that's how it is for us all, I mean... you think you're as y-you were back then?"

"I wasn't going to deny it, either," England huffed. "But it isn't fair. You always get caught in the crossfire of these idiotic European—ugh, that hurts, don't—"

"Sorry." America kissed England's temple. "It's... it's okay, I don't mind."

"You don't mind dying... you stupid boy?"

"I've gotten used to it, yeah?" America grinned. "Nothing like a nice hot bullet b-burning through your flesh to... ah, God! remind you that you're fucking alive in the f-first place, after all."

"That's all that reminds you?"

"That and this." America kissed him properly then, on the mouth, pulling him forwards into it; kissing his chin and his jawline and his neck when they broke apart. "I love our goodbyes, all sad and sticky and sentimental."

"Wh-which do you prefer?" England demanded breathlessly.

"You don't know?"

"I need to know."

"You're weird, old man."

America kissed his neck again; he was rocking and rutting against him more frantically than ever, working himself higher and higher towards his own orgasm. Already spent, England had sense to spare to acknowledge how close America was, feeling him within him, every tiny frenzied beat of blood at his wrists and in his throat and through his cock; he went with his every demanding motion, letting him push and pull and twist and use him however he wished.

"Of course I am," he said dully against America's shoulder. "I should have died a normal young man centuries ago, shot full of arrows or riddled with buckshot."

"You... you want to die, England?"

"No." England shook his head. "Quite the opposite. I'm sick of dying."

America didn't answer him for a long moment, tightening under him and then shuddering with a low breathy groan of something that might have been England's name but might also not have been; England didn't pay much heed to it, instead shifting uncomfortably as he felt America come inside him. It wasn't a terribly pleasant feeling but at least it was a bit of him that he got to keep. He nuzzled against him for a long moment, feeling the younger nation getting his breath back, and knew that their next goodbye would feel different to this one. It would press and constrict and stretch and burn differently. America would feel different inside him and he would feel different inside America. It was always the same old action with a brand new twist brought on by a thousand more deaths on either part.

("It's... it's not so bad," America whispered that night in 1918, squeezing England's frozen fingers with his own. "I-I feel like I see the world... more c-clearly every time I lie dying... in some frozen field..."

"Don't compose... fucking poetry," England groaned. "I'm trying... trying to die over here.")

In fact, America didn't answer him at all. He lifted England so that they could separate and put him down on his feet next to the desk and that was it. Their goodbye was more or less over. America pulled up his trousers and buckled his belt and England did the same in silence.

"I'm gonna go grab a quick shower before I head down with my boys," America sighed, running a hand through his stringy hair. "I really need to wake up, jeez..." He stuck his hand out towards England. "Well, guess this is it," he said. "I'll see you in a few months, okay?"

England stared at his hand for a long moment.

"What?" America asked, looking at his palm. "If I have cooties, they're England-cooties."

"Right." England slapped his hand into America's a little too forcefully and shook with him. "Of course. Goodbye, then."

"Aww, don't say it all stiff and cold like that," America sighed. "Come here." He pulled on England's hand and yanked him against his chest, gathering him into a tight hug. "Is that better?"

"No." England said it into his chest; he couldn't help but cling to him, feeling himself begin to cry. "I don't want you to go."

"I have to."

"I know you do but I don't want you to," England insisted, biting hard at his bottom lip. "You're going out there to die. You all are."

"I know." America kissed the top of his head as he sobbed. "I know. It's war. I've been here before."

"I'm sick of it."

"You started it. You and France."

"I know. I'm a hypocrite. But I'm sick of it, I'm just so tired of... God, I'm just tired. I'm sick of it all." England clung tighter still around America's back. "I don't want you to go out there."

"But I have to." America gently but firmly disentangled England and pushed him away. "At least you know I'll come back. It's as you say – my men won't be so lucky. Neither will yours. At least we'll come back. Different, yes. Scarred, certainly. Silent, perhaps. But we'll come back."

"Do you think that makes it any easier?" England asked bitterly, feeling like a fool as he wiped at his face on his jacket cuff. "I might as well be one of those headscarfed sweethearts waving with her handkerchief at the train station. She's not stupid. She knows he's never coming back. She knows he's going out there to die, forgotten but for a battalion photograph and a knapsack with his name on it that she wrote there—"

"Oh, that's not us," America said breezily (but his smile was forced). "We share a deathbed just as often as we share a regular bed. I don't see no train-station-handkerchief farewells for us. Chin up, fella." He tilted England's chin up himself and kissed him sparingly on the forehead again. "It's not like you."

"Oh, go out there and die," England spat at him, turning away to hide the fresh tears that wouldn't stop. Why, why, after all these years, after all these wars, did it still fucking hurt so much? "Go out there and die and don't come back. See if I care."

America sighed behind him. He leaned forwards, put his hand on England's shaking shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"Fine," he said. "You're right. It's the same for us. It hurts no matter what – on all counts. I love you and I'm still going to leave you and go out there and die. I'll miss you when I'm forgotten and fading, left behind by my battalion because I'm not worth slowing down for. I'll wish you were there to hold my hand."

Another kiss to the neck, a neat little tug of England's collar to hitch it up over a dark bite-mark from last night, and then America was gone, banging the office door behind him with his final whispered words more painful than any bullet because they were so hopelessly, pitilessly, endlessly true:

"But at least we'll always have the crossfire to come back to."

Eh, well, I figured that nations in Hetalia are like... immortal, or something. Or at least they're like Looney Tunes characters and can take ridiculous amount of cartoon-damage without needing much more than a bandage (I've yet to see an anvil get dropped on someone's head but England, for example, has been hit in the head with both a rocket and a falling star and pretty much just pulled the whole Daffy Duck "Of course, you realise this means war" schtick without appearing to take any kind of lasting physical damage...).

I digress. I thought it would be interesting to write a Hetalia fic where the characters, despite being nations, can die like humans.

...Honestly it seemed like a better idea last week when I first got the idea but didn't have the time to write it. XD

Historical note: Apparently the word "cooties", now used more-or-less solely in North American elementary schools, first surfaced amongst Allied troops during WWI. Thanks, Wikipedia! You finally taught me how to make a Cootie Catcher! I am 21 and only just now learned this valuable life skill, lololololol...

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