Learning Things the Hard Way

Warning: involves (temporary) character death and some gore.

Was written as a fill for hetalia kink meme on LJ

Fail!Story is fail. I would make excuses, but I don't want to take up too much room.

The first and only time America had come across the concept of 'death' was a number of years after his arrival in England. An old mare America had been particularly fond of had broken a leg. America crooned and petted the horse's nose as England and some other men discussed quietly amongst themselves. Upon reaching a decision, England had ushered America back into the main house. She was going to be 'put down', whatever that meant. America never saw that horse again.

-...-

America stares down in shock at the prone man lying at his feet. Blood, he recognises that, is pooling around the man's head, spreading along the floorboards, slipping into groves and creeping outward.

"England?"

The boy allows the pistol to fall to the floor before he kneels beside the older nation.

"Hey, England, get up." America demands.

England's eyes are open but that doesn't stop America from shaking the man's shoulder, as England had done many times to rouse him in the mornings.

"This isn't funny." The boy frowns and waves his hand in front of England's eyes but receives no response.

"E-England?" America hears the shakiness in his own voice. What has he done? England isn't responding with his usual bored eyes and dry tone. Is he in trouble? Really, he knows he shouldn't go poking around in England's stuff, but it had been so pretty, and he heard dramatic stories of men in his homeland fighting off fiends with it.

-...-

"England, England! Look what I found!" America, all knobbly knees and grinning teeth, ran into the room, eager to show his guardian his latest discovery.

"I didn't know you had one of these!"

England hummed in agreement, continuing to read a pamphlet depicting a stodgy old man's opinions of the current political climate.

"You're not paying attention!"

England merely hummed again and it wasn't until he heard the distinctive sound of a gun cocking that America had his full attention.

The older nation spluttered and quickly rose from his seat. He was all too aware of the gun powder sitting in the pan of the pistol and the bullet he had pushed in; one needed protection these days. But he had placed it high out of America's reach. How had the child managed to find it?

"Alfred, you need to put that gun down."

"What? But Englandddd" America pouted.

England began to slowly advance, arms forward imploringly, "Alfred, that gun is-"

"Bang bang bang!" The boy started waving the gun around, shooting imaginary foes and nearly sending England into cardiac arrest.

"America," England said sternly, "give me the gun."

He made a move for the boy, but America jumped out of reach, grinning toothily and continued to fight mock enemies.

"Don't pull the-!"

Bang.

-...-

"England? England! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I won't do it again!" America starts pushing England's shoulders as hard as he can, "I promise I won't touch your stuff! Please please please!"

England is heavy and unresponsive and America's efforts serve only to roll the man's head to the side. The boy stiffens at the sight and scrambles backwards, not registering the warm, wet feeling of blood on his knees.

The left side of England's head is a mess of pink and grey and red, tangled and splattered and dripping and in little little pieces on the ground.

Suddenly, everything else drops from his mind, and America is acutely aware of the sound of his own harsh breathing. That's not right.

"E-eee-" His hands twitch and grasp reflexively, and he can feel his stomach twist and churn.

"England, England. Arthur." America's breathing is quick and shallow as he rises to his knees and crawls around England, to his face, dutifully avoiding looking at that.

America touches England's cheek tentatively.

"England, wake up. P-please. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry!"

What had he done? What should he do? That mess, that blood. Blood is bad. Bleeding is bad. England is bleeding, a lot. And England's eyes are open, but he does not respond to anything. The bullet must have done that. H-he had done that. He had done this to England. He had-

Renewed panic washes over America and the little boy is suddenly crying and screaming and shaking the man as the older nation's head lolls and jerks with the younger's movements.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, wake up, get up, I'm sorry!" He repeats himself until the words are unintelligible and his voice hoarse.

America quickly tires and collapses on top of his guardian bonelessly, "I'm sorry" he whispers again as he buries his face in England's chest and hugs the man firmly, desperately hoping for some kind of reaction. A raised eyebrow, a tight smile, that constipated look England sometimes had when he was trying to hide his pride in America. Anything.

"Why won't you wake up?"

America does not know how long he lies there for, but is roused from his daze as his head is violently tossed about as England coughs wetly. Coughs.

America sits up quickly and turns to face his guardian. The man's eyes are still open, the younger nation notes, but they're moving now, staring at the ceiling, then to America, narrowing in thought, and then his head turns, taking in the red of the blood and, slightly further away, the pistol on the floor.

He turns to face America again, memories returning and realisation dawning. America holds his breath, is he properly awake now?

"E-England?"

"America? What in the blazes-!"

He is cut off by a bout of coughing caused by the sudden weight of a small boy throwing himself on his torso.

"You're awake! You're awake!" America cries, embracing the nation, "You weren't saying anything, and you didn't move, and you weren't breathing and and and, and I was so scared."

England blinks for a moment, absorbing the boy's words and feeling a warm wetness seep through his shirt as America sobs into his chest. Slowly, because he always feels stiff after these unfortunate sorts of affairs, England brings his hand up to lie comfortingly on the boy's back.

"I'm here, lad. I'm fine."

America sniffles and nods.

"But, I do hope this teaches you to listen to me when I tell you not to touch something."

"Uh huh." The boy mumbles wetly into to England's shirt.

England lets them lie for a while before he gently pushes his charge off his chest. He attempts to sit up slowly and catches himself twice before he can manage it successfully. His head is throbbing and he carefully raises a hand to tentatively prod the tender flesh on the side of his skull. Despite his care, he still flinches at the touch and withdraws his arm. England judges it will be completely healed by the next day and finally refocuses his attention to America who has been standing nervously at his side and peering intensely at England's head. For the first time, England notes the blood on the boy's clothes and draws his lips to a thin line.

Using the table to steady himself, England rises to his feet shakily.

"Are you going to be okay now?" America shuffles nervously.

"Yes, yes. I will be stiff for a number of days, but am otherwise healed."

England glances at the clock and concludes he has been out for almost an hour. There is an awkward silence as America stares at his shoes and fidgets while England watches him, debating if he should punish the child. America is visibly distressed and it was likely he had been so since this fiasco had begun. Perhaps that was punishment enough. However he would, England resolves, need to talk to America about what exactly death entailed.

"For now, I think it best if we both have a nap, after we change, of course." England is distinctly aware of the stiffness of his hair and the stickiness on the back of his neck that pulls every time he moves his head.

England takes a few tentative steps but quickly restores his gait. He nods to himself and makes for the stairs, but is stopped by a tug on his leggings. He looks down to see America clasping at his clothes tentatively.

"I'm sorry." the boy whispers.

England smiles fondly and ruffles America's hair, "I know."

He reaches down to clasp the younger nation's hand in his own, and leads the way upstairs.

AN: I'm sorry; I appear to be historically challenged; I can't write period pieces and don't know enough about the 1500-1600's. So I just had them talk like they would in the modern day, even though I did try and do research (like with the Flintlock gun, even though it was more popular in America in the time period I was aiming for), and I had no idea if what England would be wearing would be called a shirt or a tunic. Bleh. I beg for forgiveness.