At Daybreak

I listen for him through the rain,

And in the dusk of starless hours

I know that he will come again;

Loth was he ever to forsake me:

He comes with glimmering of flowers

And stir of music to awake me.

.

Spirit of purity, he stands

As once he lived in charm and grace:

I may not hold him with my hands,

Nor bid him stay to heal my sorrow;

Only his fair, unshadowed face

Abides with me until to-morrow.

Siegfried Sassoon (1917)

20th March, 1918.

"Hello, Lieutenant Jones speaking."

As soon as he heard that voice, England knew that he wasn't ready for this conversation – no matter how much he'd tried to prepare himself over the last few months.

He tapped nervously at the rickety desk in front of him, the silence of the dugout as thick and heavy as the mud he'd left outside. It was just England, and the bulky wooden box of the telephone and its black plastic receiver at his ear were all he had in place of the person who should be there to hear him.

"America, it's England."

"Oh." England almost winced. Even in the uncomfortable silence that followed and through the miles of telephone cables buried in the mud of the trenches outside, America's disdain rang clear. "Hello."

Obviously the younger nation wasn't too keen to talk with him either.

"How are you?"

It was as good a place to start as any, he supposed.

"Well, I'm just dandy, England. How about you?" America drawled, no subtlety to his sarcasm. "Looking forward to getting slaughtered tomorrow? Heard you'll be right in the line of fire when the Germans try to break through the line."

"I'm sure I can manage." England instantly regretted the bite in his voice, but America didn't fight back. Instead, the sound of the younger nation's breath ghosted through the receiver as America sighed.

"Why are you calling, England?" he asked wearily. "If you're just gonna nag me about doing my part tomorrow then I don't want to hear it. I've been out here for a year already; I know how to fight your stupid war for you."

"I know you do," England said soothingly. He took a quick, deep breath, hoping the sound wasn't obvious over the phone. "You've been such a tremendous help, America, I can't even tell you."

There was a pause, and then a forced laugh, cold and artificial as the receiver pressed to England's ear.

"Wow, England, that doesn't sound like you." He could almost hear America's lips curl in a sneer. "Is the attack tomorrow scaring you that much?"

England slumped down into his seat, stiff posture folding beneath his nerves and America's cold attitude, making this all so hunched over closer to the wooden telephone, dropping his voice lower to keep the secret as close as possible.

"That's the point, America: it doesn't scare me. How can I be scared, when I can't die?"

There it was: the thought that had haunted him more than any other shadow of war the past few years. Confessing it made his heart clench as he waited for America to shoot him down, to tell him he was stupid and ask if he was going senile.

But America said nothing, and England let himself believe that America could sense how important this was to him. Perhaps he really was letting England talk it through to make himself feel better – maybe he was even trying to understand.

"My men know that the Germans are attacking tomorrow, and they know that they'll probably all die. And yet they're still here," said England, pausing for a moment, awed all over again by the very thought.

"This is a new and terrible kind of war, America. My men are told to sit in the mud for weeks on end, sick and starving. They're told to march out into machine gun fire by their own leaders. They don't have to do it, but they do; and they do all this knowing that they won't ever go home. Whereas I can just sit back and wait for the war to end, knowing I'll make it through."

"So… what?" America asked. "You feel bad that you're not scared?" The words crept slowly and cautiously, through the telephone, so blatantly curious that England took courage and continued.

"There can be no bravery without fear, America. And I'm not scared at all." He felt the words welling up right from his heart, where they'd been haunting and pricking at him for the past four years. "How can I deserve the loyalty my men show me when I can't give as much as they do?"

There was a shuffling sound and what may have been a breath on the other line. Perhaps America was leaning in closer to the telephone and opening his mouth to reassure England – or more likely preparing to tell him that he was being stupid. Whatever the case, England knew he had to plough on now or never say this at all.

"So I wanted to prove to myself that I could still be brave," he rushed on. "Even if it's only a fraction of the courage my men show every day. I wanted to find something that I didn't want to do and… do it. To prove that I can still be scared and fight on and live through it."

"So?" America urged. "What are you scared of?"

He sounded so openly curious that England let himself believe America hadn't worded it so spitefully on purpose.

"I'm scared to tell you that… even though we're not close anymore… I miss you."

Silence burned through the earpiece. It made England's insides writhe and knot painfully with nerves, all his instincts screaming at him to deny everything and end this now before he was scalded for life.

But this was just what he had wanted.

"I'm not saying I feel this way all the time," England explained quickly, blood pounding so hard in his ears he wondered if he would even hear it when America yelled at him and hung up any second now. "I know you don't like me, and I'm none too fond of you either. That's how it is now, for both of us.

"But the fact is that, even if I can't stand you most of the time these days… sometimes I miss you. Quite unbearably, in fact. I may not feel it right now, at this moment, but sometimes I do, so intensely that I know it's stupid not to tell you, and I promise myself that the next time I see you I'll tell you that I still love you, America…"

He trailed off when he heard the words that were pouring out, surprising even himself with how much he was admitting. He'd never even put those feelings into words before, but it seemed they had always been ready to run away from him.

It was the sound of the silence, of America patiently listening to him and waiting for more, which encouraged England to continue.

"That's what I called to tell you today. It's not the same as before, of course," he added, hurriedly. "It never will be, and I understand that. But I wanted you to know that you were so precious to me back then that I haven't quite gotten over it yet. You're still special, whether I like it or not. I rather think that you'll never be the same to me as other people are... Alfred."

There was no sound, but England could almost feel America's attention on him, as if he were no further away than that wooden telephone box.

"You can forget all about this if you want. I only wanted to do something… a little bit stupid, like my men. Even though this is nothing compared to their sacrifices."

"It's not nothing."

England started in his seat, surprised by the voice in his ear. He'd gotten so wrapped up in his speech that he'd almost forgotten that he was holding a telephone up to his ear and pressed against the curve of his cheek.

"I… know what you mean," America was saying. "It's hard to tell someone you still miss them when it's been so long. Don't you think I know that, too, England?"

Maybe it was his voice that made England believe him. It was so earnest, like he really did understand what England was saying. And more than that, it sounded like America: the America he remembered.

And suddenly America chuckled. Shyer than his real laugh, but natural: no forced arrogance or affected sneer. And England realised for the first time just how much America had been working on that big show of contempt.

"We may not be scared of dying, like humans are, but I guess we're all still scared of being honest sometimes."

England choked on a smile, running a hand through his hair and breathing a deep sigh of relief. "Yes, I suppose we are."

He opened his mouth to continue, a smile lifting his war weary face and the heaviness from his shoulders… and then the world came rushing back around him. A soldier arriving in the dugout, apologies made for interrupting, a telegram handed over…

"Right," said England briskly into the receiver, dragging himself out of their conversation as he might be wrenched out of a dream. "Well. I'm afraid I have to go. I'm needed elsewhere. Lots to do before tomorrow."

"Oh. Sure."

America wasn't even bothering to hide the reluctance in his voice, not wanting to leave and not knowing when they'd speak again. England smiled as a familiar wave of fondness washed over him.

"I'll speak to you soon, America," he said, cradling the telephone carefully against his cheek.

"Sure. Talk to you later… Arthur."

5th June, 1944.

"Hello, this is Captain Kirkland. Send. Over."

A laugh burst through the radio headset and bounded around England's ears. And as much as that particular laugh annoyed him in real life, England found himself thinking that it just didn't sound right coming through the tinny radio static.

"Arthur, are you still a captain?"

England allowed himself a smile, leaning back comfortably in his seat and dragging the metal microphone with him. He let the headphones smother his ears and drown out all his thoughts and worries about the war, until all that existed was England and America.

"No voice procedure, Alfred? Over."

"Naw, it's just a personal call."

"Oh, really? A personal call? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Come on, I asked you a question," America nagged. England could just see him: smug, amused grin tweaking the left corner of his mouth, body and arms draped confidently over his chair with the radio microphone held carelessly in one hand as he lounged back in his seat. As if he'd won the war already, single-handedly. "I assumed a big, arrogant empire would have promoted himself above 'captain' by now."

"I'm rather fond of that title, thank you," England said stiffly. "I've always made a damned fine captain."

"But still, I thought an old geezer like you would – "

"Alfred," England sighed, rubbing at that particular furrow on his brow reserved just for conversations with America. "Did you really radio me just to act like an attention seeking toddler?"

There was an awkward pause as the unfortunate analogy sank in for both of them.

"Well, I never got a chance to, back in the old days," America said, ploughing on through the embarrassing topic in that reckless, honest way that was all his own. "Letters aren't really as effective as radio for getting attention. So better late than never, I guess." Through the words, England could sense the corners of America's mouth lift in a rueful smile. It wasn't something he saw often, so how he knew it was there he wasn't quite sure. Maybe he'd just gotten to used to reading through the static of their radio conversations.

"Anyway, I got a new issue of 'Captain America!'" America cheered, bowling recklessly through the uncomfortable silence in England's headphones. "Honestly, you don't know how awesome it is having a comic based on you!"

"Neither do you," England reminded him. "Just because you met a couple of artists and inspired them for some stupid, American reason that I don't understand, it does not mean that the comic is about you."

America's laugh suddenly exploded in England's ears, and the radio microphone clattered to the floor as England scrambled to remove the headset.

"What?" he snapped, when he'd collected himself again.

"I was just imagining you as a superhero," America said when he calmed down, probably removing his glasses and wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. "The artist would probably give you a real cheesy, girly outfit," America continued. "Show off those great gams of yours."

"My great what?" England blinked. He was so sick of the American slang the other nation insisted on waving around, like a badge of honour only for the young and hip.

"I-uhh-I…"

That stuttering sound wasn't good. England hoped the machine wasn't giving out. He tapped at his headset for good measure and jumped when America's voice promptly rushed back in his ear.

"I radioed to say you should come over to my camp and read the comic," the voice said quickly. It stopped, slowed and faltered when America added, "After… tomorrow. You know, when we get back."

"Right. When we get back. Sounds lovely."

England had already forgotten what he was agreeing to; it just seemed so important to get America's voice bubbling back to normal again. It simply wouldn't do for morale if even Alfred was on edge.

There was a pause, but England knew the silence wasn't due to a lost connection. He could practically feel America's focus on the other end of the radio, and wondered, stupidly, if the other nation could see him.

"Do you… have anything to say to me, England?"

"Such as?"

"Well," America drawled, dragging the word out carefully, "Last time you phoned me before a big battle was back in the Great War. You were trying to do something scary to live up to your men's bravery, so you told me you missed me."

He wondered how America was picturing him over the silence that followed. What reaction he expected, or wanted, from England. He leaned in a little closer to the radio, as if the grey bulk of metal could show him more of that lively gold and blue he would be seeing if America were here.

"You contacted me this time," England reminded him. "So it looks like it's your turn."

"Well, see, the thing is," America said, a teasing lilt creeping its way through his words. "I think Ludwig's push back in 1918 failed because of you: what you said was like a lucky charm."

"Well, I'm glad I could help the Allied cause," England said dryly.

"So even though I'm the one who phoned you, maybe you're the one who needs to say that you miss me," America persisted. "That's the tradition. Maybe that's the only way the lucky magic will work."

"Stop being an infant!" England snapped, embarrassed on behalf of both of them.

"Hey, you're the magical, superstitious one!" America argued. "Now if you don't say it and we fail tomorrow, you'll always wonder if it was your fault. Do you really want to put yourself through that agony for the next thousand years, Arthur?"

"You're an awful person," England mumbled, scowling at the radio set and flicking the silver microphone in front of him.

"The fate of the Allies rests in your hands, Arthur."

England made a sound which he hoped came across as more indignant than flustered.

"Come on," America whined, jokingly. "No need to make a big deal out of it. Just say you miss me and we'll all be save– "

"I miss you."

Once again, England could read the radio's silence as if it were the page of a book. The transmission wasn't dead: America was just staring, speechless, at the radio.

"No need for you to make a big deal out of it, either," England said briskly, fiddling with the microphone wire and looking adamantly away from the radio. "I only did it to save the world. Be sure to thank me when D-Day goes smoothly because it will all be my doing – you said so yourse– "

"I miss you, too."

England's mind stopped abruptly, no thoughts or words able to form themselves in his head, at all. The only thing he was aware of was the sudden, inexplicable hammer of his heart in his chest, his ears, his throat, his fingertips.

"So… now we both helped," America mumbled. England was too bewildered still to take in the bashfulness of the other's voice, or see through the radio to imagine America fidgeting on the other end. "If we make it tomorrow, just remember that I did my part, too."

"Right."

Obviously not used to being embarrassed, America decided to turn the tides again.

"You know, I seem to recall you saying you loved me last time, too," his voice teased slowly, almost cautiously, in England's ear. "Maybe you need to say that, as well?"

England ignored the flush he could feel blooming on his face and focused instead on being thoroughly annoyed. "Don't push your luck. You already think everyone loves you. Somebody has to play hard to get."

He knew that came out wrong before he'd even finished. And now he couldn't say anything to save himself from America's taunts because his mouth was locked, his throat closed up, oh God.

The silence was uncomfortable. Mainly because England didn't quite know how to explain away the skittering beats of his heart and was worried that America could somehow hear them.

"Well…" England said, slowly, facing the radio but not quite able to look at it. "If that's quite everything, I suppose I should go. Lots to do before tomorrow."

"Oh." England couldn't really explain how the radio made that word sound so disappointed. He must have just been imagining it. Which was a whole worrying thought in itself. "Right. Sure."

"Good luck tomorrow," England said, leaning closer to the radio set, fingers running down the smooth, silver metal of the microphone stand, voice softening and becoming far too fond and warm for talking on a radio that men used for killing each other.

"Don't need it. And neither will you, with us pilots clearing the way for you. We'll be fine."

England almost didn't need to imagine, didn't need to question why the image would even pop into his head – he just knew that America was leaning in, too, hands clutching the microphone for lack of anything better to touch, looking at the radio like it was the person who should be there with him.

"I'll speak to you soon, Alfred."

England knew he was running away. Making up an excuse to stop talking before it got more confusing and embarrassing, leaving America hanging. Because, to be perfectly honest, he was scared of where this going.

But that was good. He could save that for later and face it another day.

"Yeah. Talk to you later, Arthur."