Hola mis amigos. Long time no post SO head here's a little one shot involving England and America. Long(ish) story short America goes back to the house where he grew up with England and sees memories of his childhood actually play out in front of him. Enjoy peoples and I am sorry if the writing is kinda weird I was having a bunch of feels while writing this and it kinda came out through it and I'm sorry I'm babbling. Anywho ENJOY and review. Ciao darlings~

America stood on the pathway to the front door of a house he hadn't been to in a long time. It was a fairly large house, at least for the time it was constructed. Nestled in the woods of modern day Virginia, it was three stories, had a huge gate surrounding the property and a lot of outdoor space for a young boy to run around in. In the1500s, it stood great and strong, with huge windows, lavish decorations and perfectly groomed gardens. Now the windows were shattered. The wood on the outside of the house was breaking down and crumbling. The gardens were overgrown. This was a house of memories for America; the house he and England had lived in when he was young.

England and him had been together for awhile now. Their first kiss, instigated by America, had been when the announcement that World War 2 was over came out. It was as spur of the moment thing, but in the end it had worked out well. Since then, Alfred F. Jones had talked to Arthur many times about the past. He had finally been able to go through his basement ( where England had promptley mentioned that he was missing one of the toy soldiers he had made him). The war didn't make either of them cringe any more than any other war did. There had even been a particularly emotional afternoon where they had cried and bumbled their way through aologies. Arthur came to every birthday now.

But there was one thing Alfred had never done. The house in Virginia was simply a place he had never planned to return to. England would probably roll his eyes and call him a coward for standing at the gate for so long, but the fearless nation was afraid. Afraid to see what was inside the house that had once belonged to his guardian, friend, and enemy. Afraid to remember the nights they fought, and even a little afraid to remember the good times, the things he threw away.

America climbed the path slowly. He kept seeing something flickering around him, but it was rather hot out, so he put it down to tricks of the light. Until of course, the laughter of a young boy rang out around him. The county stopped dead in his tracks and looked around, trying to find where the laughter had come from. "Move away from the rose bushes, you're going to hurt yourself." Alfred's heart was frozen at the sound of England. Had to followed him?

"Aw man Iggy, that's not funny. Why are you following me?" He spun to look for the Brit, but instead saw a little boy, standing on a log with his arms held out for balance. "You worry too- AHHH!" Alfred watched in horror as the little boy fell sideways into a rose bush. "England, help me!" Turning slightly, America watched in mixed awe and fear as England, dressed like a sailor, walked to the child. "I warned you didn't I?" He reached down and pulled him from the bush. Through loud sniffles, the boy pointed at his hands and said, "Ouchy!" Rolling his eyes, England picked up the boy and carried him up towards the porch.

At this point, America knew what was going on. If he looked too intently at one of the people they started to fade. They weren't real, or at least not anymore. America knew the little boy was him. He actually remembered the day he had fallen into the rose bush, mostly because of what followed the pain. He jogged after them and arrived just in time to see England sitting down next to a still crying young America. "Alright soldier. Let me take a look at those hands." England grabbed a glass of water and poured some on the boys hands. A servant came out with a towel, some bandages and some alcohol.

"This is going to sting a bit, but be brave alright poppet?" America nodded and bit his lip, squeezing his eyes in pain when the alcohol ran over his little cuts. England then added more water and dried the hands with the towel and wrapped them in bandages. He then pulled the child into his lap and ruffled his hair, planting a kiss on his forehead. "That's my brave little soldier." Young America was frowning when he ushed against England's chest. "You always call me that. What's a soldier?" Englan smiled and pushed back some of the boy's messy honey blonde hair. "A soldier is someone who fights for what they believe in, a hero."

The boy still looked confused. "What's a hero?" "A hero is someone who saves people and not for a reward. Only because they know it's right." And then they were gone. America stood alone on the porch, staring at the step where he had first learned what a hero was. Why was he seeing this memory so clearly? Sure, he remembered the day. He didn't remember his guardian's words though. Had they gotten that lost over time, that he had forgotten that a hero required no reward, no acknowledgment? Some hero he turned out to be.

The door had long since rotted away, leading straight into a large sitting room. Alfred gasped at the sight of a slightly older America sitting on the floor drawing England walked into the room carrying a box, one arm in a sling. America smiled at this memory. It was one that he had seen before in his mind, every time he looked at the toy soldiers in his basement. The boy leapt at the present, barely noticing the broken arm. A quick thank you was all England received, but the older nation's face lit up at the sound. He ruffled America's hair before making his way towards the door. Usually this was all America saw, but this time he felt compelled to follow.

The hallway that memory England went down led to his study, a big room once painted dark red and filled with magnificent mahogany furniture. All of this flickered in the memory as America watched, and from time to time he could see what it really looked like now; peeled paint and rotted wood. England sighed as he walked over to his desk and sat down. They could still hear young America chatting away with his new toys. And that was when present day America saw what he had missed when he was a happy go lucky child.

England's face was tired. He looked like he hadn't slept in years and America knew now that it was because of him. America had been a country, he aged slower than normal children. He had been a burden on England for many more years than most kids were, but the older nation never showed how tired he was. He never stopped trying to surprise the little nation. Why hadn't America seen this before? Why hadn't England ever complained, even after the fact? Today it could be taken in good humor, but every time the Brit talked about America as a child it was always "You were perfect," and never "I was so tired."

The next room was the kitchen, which America quickly moved past, not eager to see any memories about the food he ate there. Instead he carefully climbed the stairs and entered his old room. Another memory was playing, this time with a teenage America standing in front of a mirror and England sitting on a chair in the corner. "I really don't understand why I have to wear his stupid thing." America grimaced at the tone his younger self was using. It was rude and cold, as were his eyes when they looked at England. The older nation let a flicker of hurt flash over his face before replacing it with a scowl. "You're too old to be wearing children's clothes anymore. It's time to start growing up a bit, America."

The teen rolled his eyes and ripped off the jacket of the suite he was wearing. "Whatever. When are you going away again?" England turned the page of the book he was reading and said, "Tomorrow I'm afraid." He was oblivious to the hurt in the young nation's voice as he turned to leave the room, "Ok, I don't care anyway," but America remembered that part of his childhood well. The constant begging for attention, always feeling ignored by the man he had placed on a pedastle. For a long time his whole world had revolved around the British Empire, and there was always a ang of hurt when he left to pay attention to someone or something else.

Now America understood a bit better. True, England should have come back quicker, or explained why he was gone so much, but there was no way to stay in one place all the time and look after a little country. As a super power himself, he was rarely actually in America anymore, and when he was he was busy as hell. The thought of taking care of a tiny country on the other side of the ocean, and one that seemed to make it a point to get into trouble, sounded like a huge responsibility and certainly one that couldn't take up all of his time.

This didn't change the memory of pain whenever England said he was leaving. Eventually that pain turned to a slight grudge, and then to something verging on hate. He had never in his life hated England, but when the taxes in his country had been increased and he STILL wasn't getting any attention or representation, he got pretty close to hate. And then he had declared independence and then...

The third floor was where England's bedroom had been when he had stayed there. America watched a tiny boy run out of his old room, tears running down his face, and climb the now rickety staircase that led to the top floor. He followed slowly, knowing whatever memory was at the top would wait for him. The memory actually took place in the hall right outside of the bedroom. England was kneeling beside America, having just opened the door to his room. "What's wrong soldier?" America was staring at the floor and quietly mumbled, "I had a bad dream." Arthur coked his head to the side and stood up. A panicked America stared up at him, afraid he would be sent back to bed alone. "If you ever have a bad dream you don't have to knock to come in you know." The Brit picked the boy up and he wrapped his arms around his guardian's neck. "Let's get back to sleep, hm?"

England opened the door and when the light of the memory faded the door was still open, hanging off it's hinges now. America slowly made his way towards the room, heart light with that particular memory still fresh in his mind. He stepped into the room, hoping to see the rest of the memory. Instead he saw rain outside the window. There was only one candle burning and it was sitting on the mahogany desk in the corner. It was littered with papers, as was the floor. Glass from what used to be a vase was scattered all over the floor and England sat at the desk, one hand rubbing his head like he had a headache that wouldn't go away.

America knew what memory this was, even if he hadn't been there for this part. He remembered smashing the vase and throwing the papers around. He even remember the rain. "I've given you time to walk in. I hope it was enough." America looked at England, startled. Who was he talking to? "You're wondering who I'm talking to." America's mouth fell open. It was like the memory knew he was there." "I'm not really talking to you, but I know you are there. I've been leaving memories around this house since the first time I stepped foot inside. You have't seen them all, I'm sure. Only the ones that affected you the most. I would probably see different ones if I returned."

The present day America gaped at the memory England. "How do you know what I'm gonna say?" England smiled sadly, not looking at America. "I will assume your English has not improved. I know you very well America, even if you think I never payed attention." America closed his mouth and narrowed his eyes. "In 1939 you declare war on Germany and start World War 2." England didn't react. "No doubt you just told me something I will have no knowledge of until the future. This is not a time warp Alfred. I'm not really there with you, but I am leaving this memory for you. Please just listen."

England turned in his chair to look at the fire in the fireplace. "Do you hear yourself downstairs?" America did in fact hear himself throwing the world's greatest temper tantrum. He was throwing anything glass against the walls, tipping over bookcases, screaming up the stairs about how much he hated England. He remembered thinking England would storm down the stairs and yell at him, starting a fight. But he never did. he had ignored the angry colony just like he always ignored him. Now that he was seeing what England looked like, years after the anger had dissipated, America saw the way the words and sounds from the first floor were hurting the man. how he wanted them to stop but was either too proud... or too smart to give into the need to pick a fight.

"You wanted independence. You think you are so grown up, so ready to take on the whole world alone. How can you claim this when you are doing something so childish?" England's face was emotionless and his voice heavy. "I need you to know, even if it's years after, that I never thought you were weak, or incapable of being on your own." America raised his eyebrows, turning his attention from the noises downstairs. "I know you will be one of the strongest countries this earth has ever known. And you should know that even though I'm furious at you, I'm unbelievably proud."

An unnoticed tear made it's way down America's cheek as he sat on the window sill, his back pressed to the glass made cold from the rain. "It is the fact that you are willing and able to stand up against me that that makes my heart swell with pride. I know you can take on the whole world alone." He gave a large sigh and again America say his caretaker's tired side. "I just don't want you to have to. You grew up too fast and that wasn't fair to you. I kept pushing for you to grow up and now you think you are ready to do everything on by yourself."

"It's not that you can't. It won't be easy. You will hit so many roadblocks, suffer so much more than if you just waited to learn more. But you're stubborn. I suppose you probably got that from me." America smiled a little at that. He knew England's stubborn ways very well. England was smiling too as he stared at the flames, but it was a sad smile. "I know what's going to happen America. We will go to war," America's eyes widened and he gasped as England breathed in and continued, "and I will lose." If the man had always known this, why hadn't he simply never fought the colony?

"The king won't listen and neither will the people. They can't see the bigger picture. I won't tell you this in the near future. Maybe I never will." The silence in the room was heavy for a moment while the Brit collected his thoughts. "Soon I will be making battle strategies and plans of how to break this rebellion you have started. I will throw my entire being into them and try my best to forget that the person I'm planning to break was once the little boy whose wounds I bandaged, who I comforted after nightmares. And I will fool myself right up until the end. In my mind I will say, 'I can do this. I can kill him.' And I will keep saying this until we are face to face in battle."

America was torn between needing to listen and wanting to run. He didn't want to hear how England had thought about how to kill him during the Revolutionary War. He didn't want to remember that he had been prepared to do the same thing. "But I am admitting this here and now so that no one can ever claim that I didn't know. When the time comes, I won't kill you. I won't pull that trigger, or force that blade into you. I won't because I can't." The tears were more frequent and more numerous now on America's cheeks. England's face was still emotionless as he spoke.

He rose and walked to the window where America was seated. He stared down at the path, making America turn as well. He heard the front door downstairs slam shut and watched his younger self storm out into the rain, stomping down the path, only pausing once to glare at the window where he and England now stood. The blue eyed rebel slammed the gate and started running into the woods, soon disappearing into the woods. This was why America remembered that night. It was the last time he had been in the house in Virginia. The last memory in that house was one of anger, rage and pain, more than he had ever thought.

England sighed and leaned on the window pane. "There you go, running away. You never did see things through to the end. I hold onto the hope that you don't really hate me. That when the time comes you won't be able to kill me either. Or maybe that glare of hate is real. Maybe you really do hate me. I'm not sure. But you know, don't you?" "England, I never hated you." It was nothing but a whisper, but it held every emotion America was feeling. Pain, sorrow, remorse. England was shaking his head. "I didn't hear you. I can't. I'm just a memory to you now." A thoughtful look crossed his face.

"Am I dead? Did you kill me? If you did, does this memory, seeing the other side of the story, make you feel guilty?" A sob tore it's way through America at the nonchalant way England said this, like the possibility of his death meant nothing. "No you're not-" "Maybe you didn't kill me. Maybe it was someone else, or I eventually just faded away. Do you still feel guilty?" America sank to the ground, his head in his arms and his knees pulled close to his chest. He heard England sit back down in his chair.

"You shouldn't, you know. Feel guilty. If you never knew any of this it was simply because I never told you. I'm an awful coward sometimes America." You were never a coward, America thought. "But I am hoping that I'm not dead." America lifted his head at the suddenly light tone in England's voice. "I'm hoping that I still have time to tell you how proud I am, that you won't only get to hear it from a memory that isn't even yours. If I'm still alive, tell me. Please, little soldier. Remind me." America watched as one tear left England's eye, causing a new round of sobbing to start. "I wish.. no. I really wouldn't change any of this for the world. Thank you America. Don't ever change."

The memory faded as the man turned back to his desk and sighed, pulling out some paper and a quill. The room ow had light coming from the window. The desk was gone. The curtains were moth eaten. The bed was falling apart. But America was still on the floor, head in his hands, tears running down his cheeks, and a tiny smile on his face. He looked over where England had been just a moment before. In his place there was a tiny wooden soldier, painted by hand by the very memory that had just disappeared.

Arthur was chattering away about this day, how he had gotten out of a meeting with France due to a mysterious case of bad escargot and had the day off instead. He had called America hoping to spend it with him, but after several missed calls and unanswered texts had spent the day with Japan. "It was nice to see him, it has been awhile." "Mhm." Arthur frowned at the American's uninterested reply. "There's a world meeting next week in Canada. It'll be good to see Matthew again too, even if he is joined at the hip with that frog." "Yup." Arthur raised and eyebrow. "And I'm sleeping with France. Just so you know." "That's nice."

England grabbed his cup of tea and sat in the chair at the dining room table across from Alfred. "Earth to Alfred. Is anyone there?" He waved his hand in front of the younger, causing him to blink and shake his head. "Sorry. I totally just spaced out." Arthur smirked. "I could tell. You didn't even react when I told you I was sleeping with Francis." America paled. "YOU'RE WHAT?" England laughed and gave America a kiss. "That's more like it. Only kidding love." Alfred rolled his eyes and smiled for a moment before glancing away from the Brit to look back out the window with a solomn face.

"America, what has gotten into you? I'm not usually the one making up all the conversation here." America didn't respond for a minute. England leaned closer over the table, pleading silently for Alfred to talk. "I went to the house today." England scrunched his nose. "You're going to have to be a bit more specific if you want that to mean anything to me." "The one in Virginia." "Alfred, there are a lot of houses in-" America pulled the toy soldier out of his pocket and placed it on the table. "Oh. That house."

Alfred stole a glance at England, afraid he would look sad or hurt. Instead he was holding the toy thoughtfully. "Is that why you're so down? That place is probably falling apart now. You didn't hurt yourself or anything, did you?" England started looking for signs of injury, making America giggle quietly. "Sta-sta-stop it!" He pushed England's hands away and shook his head. "I'm not injured, jeesh." His smiled faded and he didn't let go of Arthur's hands. "You were there. Sorta." England frowned. "What do you... really?"

America looked up at the light tone in the man's voice. He looked shocked and pleased at the same time. "That spell lasted that long? Not bad for an early attempt." Alfred stared England. "You sure are taking the fact that you made me cry pretty damn lightly!" England's face fell and he looked back in alarm. "Cry? What do you mean? What did you see that could have made you cry?" America's mouth fell open. He let go of Arthur's hands and stood up. "Like you don't know! The night I left!" The room was silent. Alfred couldn't figure out what emotion England was feeling. His face was emotionless, much like when he stared into the fire in that painful memory.

"You were only supposed to see the memories that affected you most. I never thought you would actually see that one." His voice was monotonous. "Yeah well past you sure did. We basically had a conversation." Arthur's eyebrows were furrowed and he rubbed his chin in thought. "Hm. I guess I had always hoped... wait, what did I say that made you cry?" America frowned. "You don't remember what you said?" Arthur laughed and got up, wrapping his arms around America's neck. "Of course I do. I told you I was proud of you, that I could never hurt you and that I hoped I would get the chance to tell you some day." He frowned again and leaned back from the embrace. "I guess I have never done that. What a fool I am."

America was smiling softly. "How do you not think that made me cry? Hearing you say that when I was pretty sure you hated me?" England shrugged. "Because I had forgotten about it. I didn't see that one." America looked down at England in shock. "You... what?" "I went back to that house in 1944. I saw a whole different bunch of memories than you did I'm sure. There were probably moments that you remembered more strongly than I do for different reasons and the same for me." America pulled England onto his lap as he sat down. "You went back right after WW2?" He nodded. "That was one of the first things I did when I visited you after the war." America smiled as England rested his forehead against his. "I've seen all that house can tell me. I don't need it to remember the past. I'd really rather work on making new memories." He kissed the American. "I am proud of you, you know."

He pulled back from the kiss and smiled devilishly. "I'm not going to tell you what saw though." America smirked back. "Oh really? Not even if I tell you what I saw?" "Nope." England gasped as America picked him up and threw him over his shoulder. "I have ways of making you talk, Kirkland." England rolled his eyes. "You'll never get anything out of me." "I can certainly try." They laughed as America ran through the house and up the stairs. This house was full of memories too; good memories, bad memories, happy and sad. The past was the past though. It was time to live in the present.