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As with most things during the war, the day before America and England were parted began with all quiet.
The sun had fallen later than usual on the military base, a milky orange fading into blue, coating the sky as the two personifications left the meeting room, laughing to themselves. Given the relative peace of the last two weeks, their schedules had been free except for the usual morning briefing at zero-nine hours and meals at the cafeteria. Otherwise, they spent their days together, their nights tangled even tighter.
And so it came as a surprise as an officer, clad in the military dress of America’s air force, cleared his throat, interrupting the two of them. He gave a severe glare to England, which made America bristle; it hadn’t been the first time a member of the American military had looked at his lover strangely.
“Did I miss something?” America said, trying to keep his tone light, which was helped by the fact that he had been giggling boyishly with England moments earlier. Said smile fell as soon as the officer immediately began going through a schedule for tomorrow from a folded piece of paper in his gloved hands.
“Then finally, we’ll fly you in for the victory parade tomorrow, sir,” the officer finished. “And of course, Harry and Bess will expect you at the White House for dinner.”
America felt his smile sag, but what was worse was the sensation of England’s bandaged body tensing beside him. “So fast? I mean, tomorrow, gosh…don’t we have the VE-Day celebrations to go through? Is President Truman gonna come over to the base, see what we have here?”
“That won’t be necessary,” came the clipped reply, cutting through the light breeze that flowed through the open corridor. “He needs help to settle into the presidency as quickly as possible, especially now we’ll be focusing on the Pacific theater. And you, Mr America, are necessary to that effort. We’ll be squawking at zero-nine hours tomorrow morning. Good day.”
With a salute, the attendant was off, leaving America and England standing awkwardly halfway in the corridor, the fabric of the tent flapping around them. England shifted into America’s side uncomfortably, an exhale of air falling from his lungs as he looked up at him.
“I suppose that’s why they were so uncomfortable with you bringing me into meetings,” England quipped as America locked the door behind them. “Given they seem rather eager to pull you as soon as possible out of here. That, or I’m technically from Europe.”
“They don’t, it’s just…lots of new blood in the administration wanting to make a name for themselves,” America leaned against the beat up door as he said it, turning to face England. “Hey, look. It’s not as if they can tell me what I can and can’t do, yeah? Even though our relationship is pretty well known to, uh, everyone.”
England fought back a smile, or at least, that was what it looked like, as his good arm reached for America’s hand. “Well, I’m sure they were as thrilled as Downing Street was.”
The 8th of May. 1945. Victory in Europe Day, or VE-Day.
Also the day America and England had made their year or so of secret dating known to their respective governments. England had drafted up a statement on his personal typewriter America had read it. Naturally, there had been some unhappy murmurs, but it had been done.
Since then, other than a few non-disclosure documents and meetings with their bosses, nothing changed: America and England had stayed inseparable. As the last months of the war had wound down, treaties and agreements and court cases being set up for the peace, the two of them had been shipped off to the location, located in Burtonwood, a joint Anglo-American air forces base. Assigned, really, but America was sure England had pulled a few strings to make sure they’d be together.
Yet England, for all the sarcasm and dry wit that had been steadily creeping back into his slender form since VE-Day, was not fully restored to health, as America had hoped he would have been. That was his excuse for being with England all the time, yet as long as his lover could see through his words, the teasing as he always did, he didn’t care what others thought.
Still, America felt the unease in his stomach coil as the two of them began to walk out of the tent.
“...you gonna be okay?”
“No, it’s just…” England trailed off with a snort. “I don’t know. I should have expected this. I was dreading it, America. I didn’t want to remember the world beyond us existed. I wanted to stay in a world with just the two of us, the lazy afternoons reading in our bed, examining one of your planes in the morning after the meeting, sitting around in the war room.”
America stopped in front of England, smoothly pivoting on his right foot so that he was towering over his lover, who only scoffed.
“You’ve gotten irritatingly good at that,” England looked away as he said it, the sunset highlighting his mousy blond hair, “and I’m sure those extra centimetres you’ve grown have surely helped.”
America couldn’t help but beam. “Up here, or down-”
“You know what I’m saying, idiot! N-Now, out with it, or you’ll have to let me pass. Are you going to tell me I’m a fool, or that you’ve been playing the long con with me all this time?”
America could have laughed, if he knew England wouldn’t take it the wrong way and get mad, wasting their precious few hours together. He knew there were no disobeying orders from Washington, in the same vein that there were no disobeying orders from Downing Street on England’s part. As if America had been fooling England into thinking that he had no feelings for him. As if America hadn’t loved him first, loved him longest, all this time.
And yet, as always, America chose to smile.
“Don’t be silly, old man! C’mon, let’s forget about that for now. We’ve only got a few more hours to kill, so let’s make them count, yeah?”
Taking England’s hand, and not taking no for an answer, America dashed off, though he didn’t notice England’s knowing look as they ran out onto the airfield.
By nighttime however, America’s bravado had faltered. There was only so much running he could do from the end, and before he knew it, dinner had finished, and the rest of the base was peeling off to the barracks, him and England included.
“You know,” England had said as they were walking out of the makeshift hall, hand in hand as soon as they were alone, “when you were fetching us our meals from the cafeteria line…one of my own soldiers contacted me. Said that Churchill himself was coming en route to fetch me tomorrow. Says we’re going to have a conference in Calais. Can you believe it? Going from you to the frog. I might as well be sick.”
Their usual night-time routine was nothing particularly special. Naturally, both personifications had to make adjustments, with America having to get used to the unusual level of cleanliness while England had to get used to tucking away worn comic books into the drawers, but they had been living together like this in the base for five, six months now.
It was, if America dared to think it, domestic bliss.
“I’ve been thinking,” England began, hesitantly, as the two of them towelled off their wet faces from the bath, slipped into their matching shirt and pants set embroidered with a tiny flag, England mousing into the bed while America moved his body on top of the blankets. “So many of my women are taking your men home. I just wondered if I could do that with you. I’ve thought about this before, but your officer saying you’re returning tomorrow, I’ve just thought about it again. Set yourself up handsomely in Devonshire. We could have a cottage somewhere.”
“Huh, a cottage. Where’s Dee-vonshire?”
“Devonshire. A little county beside the sea. You’ll love it. We could raise chickens, or perhaps geese.”
America grinned, even in the fading light of the base. “Okay. I want a dog. One of the guys I flew with in the Air Force - one of yours, I think - had a German Shepherd. I want one of those.”
“An Alsatian.”
“Look, we just beat Germany for the second time,” America rolled over, propping his body up with one arm as he gazed at England in the dark. After the planes of England’s pinched face came more into focus thanks to the weak moonlight, he poked his lover’s left cheek. “Can’t you guys go back to calling the dog breed German Shepherds?”
“Term’s been around since the First World War,” England snarked back, though he didn’t bite at America’s finger. “It’ll stick, hopefully like the peace.”
If his lover wasn’t relaxing against him, America might have told him what they both already knew. England moved America’s arm away, then shifted in his cotton shirt, kicking the blankets away and leveraging one arm around America’s neck, fastening the two of them together. A soft nudge of his chest on his, and then America could feel England’s heartbeat against his, the low thump of the sound matching his own.
“Give me your shirt,” England muttered, to which America, of course, did. The rustling of fabric, the dull thump of England’s own shirt falling to the floor, the whispering of America’s much larger shirt dwarfing his frame. America saw the Stars and Stripes laid into embroidery on his lover’s chest, and swallowed.
“When this…this happens again,” America heard himself say as soon as England had settled back against him. “Will you do this? With me?”
England’s eyelashes fluttered against America’s bare chest, his voice faint as he spoke.
“Do what? Combat? Be by your side as you save the world?”
“You’re being nicer than you usually are,” America’s voice came out in a giggle. “It’s always-”
England’s hand came over America’s mouth, muffling the younger nation, though throughout the course of the war he had irritatingly put on another five centimetres of height and thus it required more effort to reach him.
“I don’t want to hear. After all, it’s our last night together. Unless you want to argue through it like the first time they made us share a tent together, then I suppose something could be arranged.”
“You’re sharing a bed with me, not anyone else. So no.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
The two of them continued to bicker half-heartedly as the ceiling fan above them whirred slowly, filling the stuffy room with some much needed air. Spring had fallen on Europe, but not in every part of the world, which was where America was headed off to next. England, with all his bandages, would be safe to rebuild, whereas America had to carry on until it was all over, however long that took, however more bullets and shrapnel and pain he thought he would take for his country.
But none of that mattered. England would be safe, free. His bandages would be removed in a matter of weeks, and he’d be able to take afternoon tea again. Maybe he’d even write, America thought as England relented with his weak scolding, his lover’s slender fingers intertwining with the metal of his dog tags. Sentences of concern and nagging would disguise England’s love within them, as it always had been. Maybe America would stash it in his uniform, like the first love letter England had written him after America had snuck off to see him, piloting a plane to see him after the Blitz (and had been scolded extensively by Roosevelt). If nothing, America knew he could come home to England at the end of the day.
“What time is your flight?” England asked, breaking America out of his thoughts. “That aide said zero-nine hours, right? Nine in the morning?”
“Yeah. Then, back home,” America’s voice sounded hollow to his own ears, and he was certain it sounded the same to England also, “where we keep on going.”
“And you’ll continue, straight into the Pacific,” England’s voice was tetchy, especially in the length of the night, the soupy warm May air. “Until however long it takes. How could I - I couldn’t stand it, America. You’ll be gone from me for that long. We’ll be together when we face the Soviets, but I can’t follow you any further into the islands. There’s only one island I want you to visit, ever.”
America could only attempt to smile. “Iceland’s been cool lately,” he said.
“Don’t you dare.” England bit his lip, and then uncharacteristically, or rather, America wanted to not spoil himself too much into thinking England would always be this clingy, he buried his face into America’s broad chest. “God, America-”
He leaned down and kissed England’s soft blond hair, newly washed. “I know.”
“We’re nations. It’s our role.” England said, almost to himself. “It’s natural. Because of our roles, we must be apart.”
“Yeah. Especially because we have a whole sea between us. You guys in Europe can get to each other easy.”
“Charming. More like I have to put up with the lot of them buggers, rather,” England’s voice was muffled, yet it didn’t dull his complaint. “Still. You’ve come to my rescue like a knight of shining armour, as your countrymen are so swift to lord over me. I just wish you didn’t have to continue on.”
America wrapped England closer to him, looking onwards to the empty hang glider situated around thirty metres from them, darkened lights out. How he and England had eagerly made love there two weeks ago, not knowing that they’d be separated so quickly after VE-Day. All of their love, their centuries of dancing around each other, learning, growing until they could come together. They had come so far, and yet still, they had no way of stopping the fact that their small pocket of peace would be torn open in mere hours.
“Me, too,” America said simply, looking ahead. “Me, too.”
England lifted his face from America’s chest for a moment, probably to watch his expression given his nature, but then soon found refuge in his chest once more.
“Just don’t go where I can’t follow,” England half hissed, half breathed. A serpent in America’s clothing. “I hate it, now you’ve become mine. A true presence in my life once more. I hate being parted from you. You know, I was summoned to get some documents from No. 9 last month. I thought of writing a letter to you, but it was only for a few days, and I didn’t think it pertinent enough to tell you until I returned…and by that time, I’d forgotten. But I couldn’t sleep a wink throughout, and the moment I returned back to our quarters, I slept like an infant. I’m sure you know why.”
“Yeah,” America replied. “You can’t sleep without me, right? I mean, I can’t sleep without you, too.”
England huffed, as if his throat was relieved that it, too, did not have to keep a secret any longer. America could feel a lovely warmth coating his fellow country’s cheek as he shifted in the bed.
“Then,” England said, after the long peace had continued between them, “I suppose we should get some sleep, tonight. While we still can.”
“Huh, I thought you’d suggest some nice, long cuddling, given you’re the perverted ambassador…”
“What was that?!”
After some light, extremely half-hearted bickering, the two personifications settled down, the same sort of slow marriage of hands and touches and kisses that they had become used to. As if each embrace could delay the forward marching of minutes, soothe the fear of being left that America had been forced to nurture since the first time England had left him.
“I love you, England,” America breathed, into the quiet. The other nation did not respond.
“...England?”
Snore, snore…
“Seriously…?!”
America had half a mind to shake England awake so that they could keep on talking, but then the curtains of the room shifted, given the slight wind from the ceiling fan. A strip of moonlight fell onto the bridge of England’s nose, highlighting his faded freckles, the soft rise and fall of his bandaged chest. How many times had America’s rough fingertips caressed the skin there, praying for his heart to continue beating? How many times had America held his bare hands in his own, whispering for him to hold on?
England didn’t need to be awake to hear America tell him he loved him. America would make sure he knew regardless. After all, he’d told England he loved him hundreds, even thousands of times. It was only in the past few years did he dare to make sure England heard.
America’s fingers trailed onto England’s chest, trailing the starched collar, the stiff white fabric. The base of his thumb caressed the embroidered American flag on his ribcage, traced over the tiny dips and curves, then fell against his heart. He adjusted himself with a grunt, nestling England against him before he closed his eyes. Whispered his love once more against his pale forehead.
America was gone before dawn.
“Stiff upper lip, England,” a characteristically grumpy and sleep-drunk Churchill muttered. “You must be aware that I don’t mind, but the press would prefer to see no tears.”
England cleared his throat, feeling the leather of his glove tighten on his bandaged hand as he forced himself to look away from the airplane window. Whatever annoyance he had kept in his throat about the fact that his boss insisted on personally escorting him had thinned to a sadness that he could not force his stiff upper lip to defend against. As if England was a petulant child that could not be relied upon around America. It pricked even harder because they both knew that Churchill’s instincts were ultimately correct.
“There will be no tears as soon as we are on English soil, sir.”
The Prime Minister merely grunted, tapping the edge of his cigar on the ashtray installed on their plane. “See to it.”
England had woken up to an empty bedroom, shelves empty of comic books. A world empty of America.
Given the nature of the base, there were three, four planes parked onto the tarmac, and as England squinted outside the windows, wringing wet with condensation, they were all clad in American military insignia. Impossible to tell which one contained his America. He had no idea whether or not any planes had taken off that morning, but then again, Churchill had flown out absurdly early compared to the afternoon England had been promised, so there still was a chance. The left side of the bed - America’s side - had been warm as soon as England had scrambled around the canvas, his chest heaving, his breathing shallow.
As Churchill took another long drag of his cigar, England could not help but think. Had America felt like this, when England had left him, hundreds of years ago? He had done everything he could to get away, but in the end, his efforts had been largely for naught, given that duty called. Did America know that? Would he believe him if England told him? It wasn’t worth dredging up those times, given that they were now lovers and the time had clearly come and gone, not to mention America seemed to bear no grudge. But even if he no longer bore a grudge, it did not mean whatever heartbreak England had given him during that time had faded entirely. Was America holding his tongue as he sat on the tarmac, presumably? Or had he left early in revenge?
England felt his leg muscles tense, his bandages constrict underneath his glove.
“How long until we depart, sir?”
Churchill looked up from the newspaper; yet from the time spent with his boss, England knew he was squinting intensely at the crosswords. “No idea,” he said gruffly, as their corner of the plane filled with light smoke, “you know those Americans. Seems like we’re always at their disposal.”
“So, a bleeding eternity?”
His boss coughed, the sound caught in a laugh. “So it seems.”
“...I’m going to take a walk.”
“...a walk? Pardon? What are you bloody on about? England - England!”
By having the flight delayed for another two hours, America could feel himself getting restless. The aide next to him was eating some cheese sandwich, his white cap discarded on the seat, and the other was shuffling a deck of cards, over and over. America watched wordlessly as the queen of spades fell out of his grip, only to be neatly tucked back into the dog eared deck. If they weren’t here, and the pilot hadn’t seemingly caught a cold the morning of the flight and a search had been scrambled, America would have had tried to persuade the general on duty to fly the plane by himself. England had barked and complained and groaned the first time America had flown a fighter jet with him in it, but then they had flown into a view of the sunset, and it had become kinda romantic, really…
“Oh, there’s our replacement pilot,” the aide with the deck of cards remarked, sending another jolt through America’s heart. “Though I don’t gotta…I don’t get why he’s running. Weird fella.”
“Running? Does he even need to be doing that? President Truman’s dinner isn’t until six, anyway-”
“Wait a minute,” America muttered to himself, coming over to where the two aides were, peering out the window, the footsteps of his shoes echoing against the carpet. He was still in military wear, the stupid suits and ties would come later. He saw a green dot come further and further into view, then the thick eyebrows.
The playing cards aide turned back to his chair. “Ah, not one of ours. One of the, uh, Mr America? Mr - hey, Mr America, what’s the big idea, wait, no!”
Which plane was it? They all looked the same, and from the angle he was at, it was impossible for England to peer into the windows. Churchill in his haste to get England home had neglected to bring an aide, and he knew that his boss was incapable of running, let alone sprinting down the rickety steps of the plane like England had. If he still had any breath left in his lungs, he’d laugh - that old sod.
Before England could peer up at the second plane parked in the tarmac, a sudden burst of commotion in front of him, consisting of shrieks, yelps, ‘what the hell are we gonna tell the captain’, and most importantly of all, ‘Mr America, come back’!
Like some sort of land shark, America sprinted into England’s view, and on his end, England broke into a run, his belt straining against his chest as his gloved hands tightened into fists. America’s bomber jacket was flapping behind him as he waved crazily, the fur around his jacket rubbing at his cheek as he called England’s name.
A plane cleared the air above them as the two of them collided, foreheads and cheeks and noses before chests and arms. America was laughing, saying something barely audible as the residual wind from the plane blew past them, while England could only feel his warmth, his lover’s pounding heartbeat.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” England shouted, though he was smiling, jabbing a finger into the small space above America’s dog tags. “I woke up to - I woke up to nothing-”
“I was gonna be late. Heh, you know how I’m,” America fumbled for words, and given how he was, England was sure that he was thinking up more deflections, more ways to conceal the fact that if they had woken up together, neither of them would have never left the room, “you know I’m always late, s’awful, my boss, he always-”
“You couldn’t bear to say goodbye. America. You foolish lad.” England’s laughter was breathless as his fingers moved in a flash, making his dog tags a latchkey that tied him to the other personification. “And don’t you dare lie!”
America raked his hands through his blond hair, already tousled from the plane blowing past them. “I didn’t want to…beg you, to not go, even though I- ugh, damn it. I didn’t want you to think of me as a child again, begging you to not go. I know we’re lovers now, but when I thought about leaving you, for the first time in five years, I couldn’t say it.”
England’s breathing was shaky as he pressed himself into America. That warm, adjoining heartbeat that had been his for the better part of five years, even before America had formally entered into World War II.
“Don’t run away, then,” England said. “Just tell me. I didn’t have a choice, back then. Here, we might still not be able to fully determine our fates, but we can still choose. There’s letters, flights, the phone, all of those things now. I’ll not leave you. Not fully, ever again.”
America’s smile put the morning sun to shame. Amidst the background of the tarmac underneath their feet, their respective countrymen shouting from their planes in the background, the same plane that held a now weakened threat to carry them away from each other, America kissed England, wrapping his arm around his waist as England pulled him to his lips with both his gloved hands in his jacket.
As they parted, breathless and rosy cheeks, America lowered his handsome face, reaching into his shirt. “Take it,” America’s voice was tender, so tender that it made England’s body tremble as he looped his dog tags over his neck. “Please. I can’t give you a ring, but I’ll get you one after the war. When I’m home.”
“You can’t possibly mail something like that over the Atlantic-”
“No, I meant home,” America wrapped his bare hand against England’s cheek. “You’re right. Doesn’t matter where, if it’s at my place, at the Von place you mentioned-”
“Devonshire-”
“There! Or this base, I dunno. Doesn’t matter. As long as it’s you, then it’s home.”
England looked at him, his green eyes glistening, a silence settling around them, a veil covering them from the loudness of the base. America heard the sound of his fingers clasping around the chain, clasping him to his chest.
“Yes, America,” England said, quietly. “I understand, with all the treaties - the Marshall Plan, Lend-Lease - they’re trying to sort out right now, that you needn’t worry. But I’ll buy you a ring, myself. I’ll work something out. And then we’ll be able to return home. Together.”
“Get married, maybe?”
England’s wry smile as he gently cuffed America’s shoulder was all he needed.
“Don’t get ahead of history, lad.”
Three weeks later, America leaned against the door of his house in Washington, back in his civilian white shirt and brown pants, a fresh pair of dog tags sitting on his chest. It was ten in the morning, he’d had his coffee, but that wasn’t the reason he felt himself smile as he opened the letter.
Dearest America,
I suppose all our theatrics at the military base were for nought. Or for good, given that we’re both invited to the next summit in two weeks’ time.
I’m unable to wear your dog tags for the time being, for obvious reasons, but I’ve managed to secure a meeting with the blacksmith nearby Downing Street. I’ll be able to pick up the refitted chain tomorrow. For now, I’ve asked him to fashion the extra metal beads into a ring, which I’ll be wearing as soon as I’m able.
As for your ring, I’ll come up with something before the Anglo-American summit. Would the number one nation of the world be proud to wear rationed leather in the meantime, perhaps?
I jest, America. Wipe that expression from your mouth.
With love,
England
The smell of England’s ink was intoxicating, America thought as he continued to read through the letter, but the lingering smell of his love was even more so. Wherever he went, wherever they went, they would never be parted. That night in the base, that morning in the tarmac, would live on like them.
Lowering his face, he pressed his nose to the wax sealing England’s love within, savouring the scent.
Thick, choking, gorgeous red roses.
A vision of England in his rose garden, his arm in a sling and his soft hair covered by a straw hat, dust on his nose as he grinned watching America walk down the path to his cottage, made America fall in love all over again.