Healing the Past

Summary: America and England find themselves alone together on the Fourth of July. Can the two nations work together to move forward out of the past and into the future?

Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own any rights to Hetalia.

Characters: America, England, smatterings of Germany, Canada, France, Italy, Japan.

Warnings: Minor Yaoi. Like, only 4 bad words. Lots of fluff. Fluff, fluffity fluff fluff fluff. Angst. Hope it doesn't make you cry…then again, go ahead and cry if you want to. I would be flattered as a writer. Any misspellings are intentional.

America whistled as he walked between the hundreds of workers scurrying frantically about the fairgrounds. He could already smell the oil for the French fries being heated up, and the faint strains of the orchestra warming up in the pit were floating across the air. Sidestepping a woman pushing a cart covered in red, white, and blue glow sticks, he made his way to the field where they were setting up the fireworks for the evening's entertainment.

The pyros gave America a confused glance, but kept on bustling about. America grinned a lopsided grin at them and began walking along the perimeter of their work as they carefully placed boxes of fireworks about the gravel and positioned the rocket heads and fuses. He finally came to a stop on the far side of the work and sat down, hands behind him for balance and legs sprawled out in front of him. The small pit in his stomach that had been bugging him all day came back as his mind wandered to his birthday plans. He had invited many of the other nations – his brother Canada, France, Italy, Germany, Japan, and England, to name a few – to come and celebrate with him, but all except England had replied that they couldn't come. America's face grew somber as he remembered that England hadn't replied at all, but then again, he couldn't expect England to come; the Fourth of July was bound to be too painful for him. America squeezed his eyes shut at his stupidity at inviting England and probably causing him such pain. He felt like such an idiot. He opened his eyes and jumped up agitatedly, walking around and around in circles as he realized that his selfishness at wanting England to be with him had probably hurt England in unimaginable ways, what was he thinking, he shouldn't have invited England –

And yet, there he was, a familiar blonde figure cutting across the field next to the gravel, already close enough that he could already see those sparkling green eyes. America froze for a minute, and then began walking slowly towards England, then breaking into a trot and finally a full-out run in the direction of England, oh my god, he was here, he was HERE, HE WAS H –

And America tripped over a box of fireworks and fell flat on his face.

England grimaced as the smell of frying oil assaulted his nose. He stepped out of the limo and into the parking lot, waving at the chauffer to find a parking space. England looked around him, trying to figure out where America might be. In the distance he saw a tall, messy-haired blonde youth making his way over to the men setting up the fireworks. England took a deep breath and began slowly walking over in that direction.

He was about 300 feet away when he saw America jump up from where he had been sitting and begin to pace in circles. England's heart clenched as he wondered what might be troubling the younger nation when America noticed him. His heart skipped a beat and he tried to smile but ended up grimacing. America began walking and then running in his direction. England's own eagerness was tempered by his desire to remain gentlemanly, and he settled for walking at a quicker pace than before. America had almost reached the edge of the field when he tripped over a box of fireworks and fell forward into the gravel.

England drew in his breath sharply and, abandoning all gentlemanly pretenses, ran the remaining distance to the fallen nation. He sank to his knees and rolled America over onto his back. "I think I broke Texas," America muttered, trying to wipe the gravel off of his face. England pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to the boy to wipe off his face. Then, holding the glasses in one hand, he surreptitiously pulled out his wand, uttered a spell to restore the glasses, and handed them back to America. Brushing off his knees, he held out his hand to pull the other nation to his feet. Once standing, America's sloppy grin spread across his face as if nothing had happened.

"YOU'RE HERE!" he shouted, and promptly lifted England off of his feet in a giant bear hug. "Oi!" England complained, gasping for breath. "I don't know a spell for broken ribs, you git! Put me down before you crush my bones!" America continued swinging him around in the air for a few more seconds before he placed him back on his feet. Giving an ecstatic laugh, America looped his arm through England's and proceeded to drag him in the direction of the grandstands, chattering away about all sorts of nonsense. England sighed, but allowed himself a small smile at America's elation and let himself be pulled away from the fireworks.

America watched England's face go a queasy green as he attempted to swallow a bite of funnel cake. "Good, isn't it?" America winked cheerily through a mouthful of burger. England finally managed to coax the deep-fried batter down his throat, and promptly shoved the rest of the uneaten confection as far away from him as possible. "How is it that you don't like this? It's better than any of your cooking," America elbowed England in the ribs, knocking the breath out of the elder nation.

"What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?" England shot back. "That doesn't count as cooking; that counts as food poisoning." America grinned, reaching for the funnel cake to finish it off after his burger. He glanced through the open window in front of them and down to the stage where the orchestra could be seen and heard playing the 1812 Overture. Far below their private box, other festival-goers waved American flags and glowing trinkets without a care in the world for the two unknown nations sitting far above them.

A little while later, when everyone was standing facing the American flag while the orchestra had switched to The Star Spangled Banner, America finished licking the powdered sugar off of his fingers and ventured a look at the older nation. England had his hands clasped behind his back, military style, his shoulders squared back…and his eyes squeezed shut as if in pain. Fear rose in America's chest at what might be haunting his friend. The song finished, and the two nations sat down, though England still had his eyes closed. America agitatedly glanced back and forth between the music and England before jumping up and saying, "Hey Iggy, do you mind if we head back to my place to watch the fireworks?"

"Don't call me Iggy," England mumbled, opening his eyes. "And what's wrong with staying here? Don't we want to be here at the fairgrounds for when everyone else shows up?"

"Whaddya mean, 'when everyone else shows up'?" America asked, confused. "Canada, France, Italy, Germany, Japan – they all said they couldn't come."

"But when I talked with Fr-" England started, then hissed something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "that bloody git." He sighed and rose to his feet.

"Well, what are we waiting for?"

America was soooo excited and nervous; England was in his apartment! He practically danced about the room as he grabbed England's coat and hung it on the rack by the door. "The fireworks should be starting in about fifteen minutes," he said, his words quickened to lightning paces by his enthusiasm. "Do you want anything to drink?"

England rolled his eyes at the younger nation's hyperactivity. "No, thank you; even if you had tea, which you most likely don't, I wouldn't take it."

"Of course I don't have tea, silly!" America grinned at his friend. "But I'm going to have a soda myself. Meet you on the terrace? We'll have a great view there!" He watched England sigh resignedly and walk down the hallway towards the glass doors leading to his top-floor balcony. America ducked into the kitchen, grabbed a can of whatever soda was closest in the front of the refrigerator, and followed him out.

England was already resting his elbows on the rail as America shut the doors behind them. He glanced back at the American momentarily before returning his gaze to the fairgrounds less than a quarter-mile off in the distance. America joined him, for once not speaking a single word. He could see the pyros off in the distance; they had just begun to light their flares.

America shifted from foot to foot. The enveloping silence was driving him insane! He wanted to tell England how much his visit meant to him, especially on today. He fidgeted a little more as a deeper part of him wanted to tell England how much not only his visit meant to him, but how much he meant to him. The sugar from the funnel cake and the soda were not helping him calm down at all. This day not only marked the anniversary of his birthday, but also the anniversary of his realization that he felt differently about England. Exactly a year before he had declared independence from the elder nation, he had realized that he loved his elder brother, and that it was wrong to feel such love in his situation. At first, he had tried to push his feelings away, preferring to pretend as if nothing had changed. But love cannot be denied, and he found himself forced to declare independence from England, forced to show the other that he was not a subordinate but an equal. Even after all these years, America still loved England. At times he thought that his heart would stop because of the sheer amount of passion it held.

But England would not have him. He had never approached the elder nation about it, but his very demeanor said that the love between them could never be. America shut his eyes to keep the tears in and clenched his hands, realizing only when he heard the sharp crack! of aluminum crinkling that he was still holding his soda.

England looked amusedly at the youth whose shirt was now covered in soda. "D'ya mind if I step inside to change?" America blushed. England shook his head. "You're too strong for your own good," he chuckled.

America ducked inside and into his room, quickly stripping off his soaking shirt and changing into a dry one. Then he hurried back out of his bedroom.

America stood in the entrance to the terrace, watching England. He was wearing an un-tucked white collared shirt, unbuttoned at the top due to the July heat. His dark jeans were paired with brown loafers that were slightly dusty from the fairgrounds. The moon lent its silvery light in a gentle silhouette, glinting off the blonde hair and, though America could not see since England was facing away from him, his emerald green eyes. America loved those eyes. They might more often than not be snapping at him, just like those angry eyebrows, but America had many fond memories of losing himself in those eyes as a little boy. Emotions surged inside of America's chest, making it hard for him to breathe. He closed his eyes, trying to regain control, but the emotions needed an outlet. America took a shaky breath.

"I-Iggy?" he asked tentatively. The elder nation turned at the sound of his voice. Worry slid across his face when he saw America's obvious distress. He was about to say something when the first of the fireworks shot into the sky.

England allowed himself a small grin as the American rushed back into the apartment. Shaking his head, he returned his gaze to the distant pyro activity. His grin quickly faded as his earlier emotions returned. He had been fine listening to Sousa, Tchaikovsky, and the like, whose songs were merely about American pride. But when The Star Spangled Banner had come on, memories of America's revolution painfully intruded upon his thoughts. The lyrics brought back memories of the siege on Ft. McHenry; though it had not been the Revolutionary War but the War of 1812, he had been on one of the ships waiting in the harbor, and he remembered seeing that tattered sign of independence fluttering on gunpowder-laden winds. His heart hurt every time he remembered his beloved little nation's defiance…how he had used the same style uniform as England's, only changing the color…how brave and strong he looked, leaping into the fray of battle to defend his country though bloodied and covered in soot…how he had walked away from England, crouched and shivering in the mud, not even looking back… England brutally tore his thoughts away from such memories, instead focusing his ire on France. When he had talked with the Frenchman, he had promised that he and the others would be coming tonight. One of the reasons England had agreed to come tonight, though he knew it was bound to be painful, was because he had been counting on the other nations to help him keep his mind off of such troublesome things. Normally on this day he would drown himself in several pints of good Irish beer, ignoring the American's invitations. But today, England had stepped out of his shell and exposed himself.

"I-Iggy?" came the tentative voice behind him. England turned around to see the younger nation staring in the doorway. He could see the tension braided into those strong shoulders, and there was pain etched into every line on the American's face. England immediately became worried about what was wrong with his former charge when the first fireworks exploded in the sky.

The resounding boom at his back sent England reeling. This time he could not control the onrushing flood of memories, brought on by the similarity in sound between the fireworks and cannon fire…

He was sitting in his parlor in London, sipping tea, when a herald rushed in, bowing hurriedly. "My Lord," he gasped, eyes wide, "the colonies have declared independence!" England frowned, his over-large eyebrows slanting dangerously. The herald winced at the sight of this as England set down his tea and walked over to him. Snatching from him the piece of parchment he held in his hand, England broke the seal and perused its contents, his eyebrows drawing ever closer together. Nearly shaking with uncontrollable rage, he crumpled the paper and threw it across the room. Turning his blazing emerald eyes upon the herald, who was cowering in the doorway, he spit out two words.

"Ship. Now."…

England ducked into a trench, chest heaving under his red coat. He clasped his musket to his chest as he worked to reload it. A heavy boom that made the ground shudder with its impact resounded not far from him, and an airborne body flew over the trench to land belly up next to him, the eyes of the soldier already clouding over as death stole the man's life…

England charged out from behind a tree, shouting incoherently along with the other soldiers. He could see General Washington riding his white charger, his navy blue cape swirling in the disturbed air and his saber flashing above his head. And there, right beside the rearing stallion, was a familiar blonde figure, roaring with inhuman strength and stabbing with his bayonet…

England was pacing his tent, agitated over the losses his army had suffered that day. 'Why do I not just end this war?' he sighed to himself. 'It would be best for everyone.' His pride, however, as well as another, stronger emotion he refused to identify forbade him from contemplating further thoughts…

England was on his knees, staring at the rain-soaked ground through a haze of tears. Two muskets lay discarded in the mud from their earlier struggle. "Why?" he whispered, his voice cracking with passion. "Dammit, why? It's not fair."

England could hear the sadness in America's voice. "You know why." He paused. "What happened? I remember when you were great." He remained there, as if waiting for England to say something back. When England said nothing, America slowly turned and walked away, leaving him alone as the rain struck his head and back. England lifted his head, watching his defiant young colony walk away. It was then that England's numb heart regained feeling, only to shatter into a thousand fragments. His breath hitched, realizing that America did not want him. America had left him. The tears that had been threatening to spill over finally did, and England cried as he had not cried in five hundred years…

"Shhh, Iggy. It's alright…"

England was vaguely aware that he was kneeling on the cold marble floor of the terrace and that the tears tracking down his face were real. What he was very, very aware of was the fact that America had his arms wrapped around him, comforting him, soothing him, drawing him away from the horrible memories of so many centuries ago. England, once again, found himself unable to move, only continued to cry quietly as the fireworks sounded overhead and America continued to comfort him.

When his tears were spent, he pulled away slightly from the younger nation to look at him through tear-stained eyes. "Why are you doing this?" he whispered, the sound somehow being heard over the booms taking place a quarter-mile away.

"I-I don't like to see you cry," America stammered. He glanced down shamefacedly. "I shouldn't have invited you," he mumbled.

England took a deep breath at this and stood up, turning to leave. "Wait, no, don't go!" America cried, jumping up. England just looked at him sadly. "You didn't want me then, and it's clear that you don't want me now," he said, not trying to hurt the younger nation but only to explain to him.

"No-wait-Iggy, you don't understand!" America cried out as England turned away again. "Please!" He grabbed England's arm, his blue eyes pleading for England to stay and listen. England only looked at him, the hurt and pain of so many years etched around his green eyes.

"I-I never meant for it to be this way," America started. Once he began, the words began tumbling out as if having a mind of their own. "I had to leave you Iggy, I couldn't go on acting as if nothing had changed. Well, for me things had changed, I don't know if they changed for you, but I had to leave you. Iggy, when I said that I wanted my freedom, I only meant that I never again wanted to be your colony. Or your little brother. Because little brothers can't-" he stopped there, turning bright red.

"Because little brothers can't what, Alfred?" England asked gently, peering through Texas and into the other's eyes.

"Because little brothers can't-can't l-l-love their big brothers," America mumbled, dropping his glance to the floor. England heard every word; it seemed as if the fireworks no longer emitted any sound, only lent their light to the scene before him. Their world was silent, save for their breathing and the electricity sparking between the two nations.

"Alfred, little brothers are allowed to love their big brothers," England said, the pieces of his heart threatening to reassemble after centuries of being shattered. England vainly tried to keep the traitorous pieces from doing so for fear that his heart would be broken once again.

America looked up at him. "No they can't. Little brothers can only ever love their big brothers as brothers do. They can't love them as anything else. Iggy, I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you, but I had to show you that I wasn't just your little brother. I had to declare independence from you if you were ever going to see me as your equal. I had to free myself from you so that I could be free to love you. I had to…I just had to…" he whispered, tears beginning to form in his blue eyes.

England's newly reformed heart beat a million miles an hour. America loved him? He and the younger nation both unconsciously stepped closer to each other until they were almost touching, eyes locked.

"I never meant to hurt you," America whispered through his tears. "I love you. Please…please understand…please Iggy…"

"I've told you not to call me Iggy," England whispered back before putting his hand behind America's head and finishing the distance between their mouths, locking his lips with those of his love. Heat immediately seared at the intimate touch, and both closed their eyes in contentment. America slowly brought his arms up around England's back as the other stood up on tiptoe to get a better leverage. The kiss deepened as they angled their heads. They finally broke apart, panting, the lights from the fireworks splashing across their faces and reflecting off of the tracks their tears had left.

"All this time?" England whispered. "All this time you've loved me?" America could only nod his head, the shock of being kissed rendering him mute. Pure joy sealed the fragments of England's heart back into a whole being, and reflected across his shining face. "Oh, Alfred," he murmured, then reached back up for another kiss. This time they let their hands move across each other's bodies. America rubbed his hands in small circles on the other's back, and England twined his one hand throughout the other's blonde tresses, the other hand caressing his lover's cheek. When they finally had to come up for air, they remained in their embrace, allowing the pain of the centuries to be washed away through the sheer strength of their love for each other.

When England finally pulled away again to look America in the face, America gave a rather strangled laugh before the tears resumed falling down his face. "Alfred, what's wrong?" England asked. The other swallowed before saying, "I never knew…I always thought that I was alone in loving you. I never knew that you felt the same about me…" he trailed off, smiling through his tears, though now they were tears of joy. Watching those tears, England finally gave acknowledgement to the emotion he had been repressing for centuries, the emotion that was the real reason that he had fought America's leaving him.

"Alfred, I've felt about you this way…well, at least since the day that you declared independence from me. I tried to push it away, because I, too, knew that I could not love you in that sense so long as you were my younger brother. It was the reason I fought against your leaving me…I suppose it was selfish of me, but I couldn't bear to let you go. I didn't know that you were declaring war against me out of love for me-" at this America snorted in amusement. England smiled before he continued. "I didn't know that you were declaring war against me out of love for me, and because of that, I fought back. I thought that I would rather keep you as my younger brother and repress my love for you than allow you to become free for me to love you but having to lose you in the process. And that last day, when you earned your final victory, I forced myself to forget my love for you, believing that you would never want me. My heart broke that day. But you," England reached forwards once more to chastely kiss America before breaking away, "you have restored my heart. I love you, Alfred."

And with that, America brought his mouth back to England's own as the world resumed its reality around them. The fireworks blasted overhead in the sky as the two lovers kissed passionately, making up for the time they had lost together. A final, giddy thought flitted through America's head: 'This has to be the best birthday present ever.'

And, a few buildings away, an attractive man with shoulder-length blonde tresses giggled through his binoculars. Canada, Germany, Italy, and Japan were all gaping up at the fireworks, so France had to walk in front of them to get their attention.

"Well, eet was a good idea of mine to leeve zem alone togezzer for ze evening," the Frenchman giggled again.

"Oh, France, shut up, quit being a Peeping Tom, and just watch the fireworks," Canada said. And with that, the Frenchman left America and England to themselves, though he kept his binoculars nearby…just in case.

Ok, two things: One, I've never seen Hetalia before, so I know that my characters are a little out of context and not true to the anime series...sorry! And two, I've been debating about putting in a second chapter to this, where England and America are still trying to work things out between them. I'm not quite sure the story needs it, though...review and comment as to whether or not you'd like a second chapter!