Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Can people become ghosts while they are still alive? 

America wonders this to himself, and finds that he would rather not dwell on the possibility. Or on the idea of ghosts–in general.

England is there, running his fingers along the grooves in the hall table, inspecting little dents and wiping away dust. 

“Um,” he ventures, in lieu of a proper greeting. “What are you doing in my house?” 

But England does not acknowledge him and acts as if the old ring-shaped scar in the solid wood finish is the most engrossing thing in the world. Perhaps he truly can not feel America behind him, and, perhaps–to England–America is really not there at all. 

“America,” the other finally calls, sighing deeply. His voice is loud enough it echoes down the hallway. 

“Y-yes?” America answers. 

England doesn’t turn around, only scratches his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

America wants to reach out and touch him on the shoulder, get him to explain himself, but his hand only twitches at his side. Because. This figure before him isn’t England as America knows him now. The shoulders are not as broad, the middle not as solid, even the neck more slender and smooth. England is much harder and broader in body than this not-England, this England-impersonator. It is as if the years have been stripped away and he is left nigh unrecognizable. 

(But, America admits only to himself briefly, it is somehow still England. He would know England anywhere. Would always be able to tell, even if he couldn’t hear or see anymore.) 

England puts a slender arm around the air beside him, and runs his hand up and down as if he is petting something. “Now then, care to explain this?” He points to the mottled, pale ring in the wood of the table. 

“It was an accident,” America finds himself muttering, not really of any obligation to answer, but to fill the silent void where there should be one. 

“You should really know better,” England tsks, and then launches into a little lecture, his tone admonishing and exasperated. “You must take better care of the furniture in this house. I would have been lucky, at your age, to have four walls around me at all times, or finely crafted tables on which to set dripping pots of dandelions.” He hums. “I know they are pretty, yes. They do look quite lovely in the house, hm? Not directly on the wood, next time, please.” 

England turns around then and America takes in a breath. And as he holds that breath, England vanishes. 

He has forgotten–had never really realized, back then–how soft England used to be. The image of England from those irretrievable years lingers in his mind, an England whose fine, clean silhouette has been worn down by the years. England of the present, who is sturdy, unshakeable, and walks in and out of places with the utmost confidence and grace in the world– that England used to be narrow, and wiry, and rubbed America’s little shoulder in soothing circles, idly, like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

Later, America punches in the phone number without even looking. He taps his foot while the dial tone repeats. All the while, he is looking at the mess of pamphlets and take-out menus and loose odds and ends that are stuffed in the drawer. 

“Hello.” Canada’s voice is muffled on the other end of the receiver, accompanied by scratching noises that grate on America’s eardrum. “Al, you there?” 

“Yeah. Whatcha eatin’?” 

“Bacon, egg, and cheese McGriddle. I needed it for the drive.” Canada gulps down something for a few seconds. “And coffee.” 

America fiddles with the cord on the phone, straightening it out then letting it go to snap back into a tight curl. “Where are you coming from?” 

“Shefford. I only left a little more than an hour ago. Why’d you call?” 

“Okay. Shefford.” America runs through his vague mental map of his brother’s place and finds that Shefford lands nowhere in his geographic memory. “So.” 

“So.” Canada is stuffing his face with the McGriddle again, by the sound of the crinkling wrapper. “What’s–damn it, man!” There’s a loud beep, and Canada swears again, more softly this time, sighing. 

“Don’t get into any accidents on your way here. Road rage. Ha ha!” 

Canada mumbles something about American drivers and takes another sip of coffee. “Were you going to tell me something? Because if you aren’t, and you’re just calling to butt into my alone time, I’d like to get back to the podcast I was listening to.” 

America snorts loudly at that. He leans on the table, finger tracing the rough surface of the pale ring, where shortly before, the phantom touch of other hands had swiped critically at the old, discolored blemish.  “How long until you get here?” 

“About two hours. Sorry. I know you can’t wait that long to see me.” 

A grin spreads across his face. “Don’t lay on the horn too much in your rush to get over here.” 

As if on cue, there is a pause followed by two rapid honks and a deep groan. “J’en ai marre, ostie. Really. Turning the truck around right now. Tell the others that I can’t make it to the meeting.”

“Aw, c’mon, Mattie. We were supposed to have game night. I stocked up on hot cheetos and diet cokes and everything.”

“Can’t. If I keep driving I might not make it in one piece.”

“You’re just afraid of how hard I’ll kick your butt in Mario Kart.” 

Canada laughs out loud, so hard his voice crackles over the line. “Tell me again: Who has thirty-six wins this year alone?” 

America gasps, and starts pointing frantically, as if Canada is right in front of him. “That’s nothing! Do you know how much Japan has on me? I haven’t beat him once. The guy is insane. You’d never stand a chance!” 

“Are you gloating about how much of a failure you are?” 

“I’m just trying to slash your ego so you’re prepared when your sorry ass gets decimated tonight.” 

Canada hums thoughtfully, taking his sweet time over a sip of coffee. “Is that a promise.” 

“I’m serious. Dude.” America crosses his arms, cradling the phone in the crook of his neck. “Just get over here as fast as you can. Run a few red lights if you have to. I’m so bored you might find a rotting corpse here where there used to be the United States of fuckin’ America.” 

“Please . You’ll be fine. Maybe get started on that opening speech before England accuses you of bullshitting your way through life again.” 

“Like he doesn’t,” objects America, but he stops to listen to a clatter coming from upstairs, almost like someone is rifling through a closet. “Well, I’ll leave you to your podcast. Nerd.” 

“Loser.” 

“And one more thing. You’ve got only thirty -four wins.” With that, America hangs up and stares a moment at the telephone. The house is silent except for the faint ticking coming from the antique case clock in the hall, and his own breathing. 

—

It will be another two or three hours until Canada arrives, which is enough time to blow through the chores that America was in the midst of doing before he stumbled upon the…Well, before he lost himself in a long-ago memory, as happens every so often when one’s age approaches a few centuries. The house needs work, and once America puts his mind to something, there is really no stopping him, so he dusts, and sweeps, and airs out all the rooms. He throws his bedroom sheets into the Speed Queen, and while the ancient thing scrubs them clean, he goes outside and rakes the leaves into haphazard, sprawling piles. Back inside, he flips on an old radio as he washes his hands, singing along to 80s hits, then meanders into the utility room beside the kitchen and makes a mental note to get the furnace serviced. 

The home itself, a two-story structure with darkly painted exterior clapboards and an exposed interior frame, is humble and almost quaint by present standards. It used to be much smaller when England first commissioned it, consisting of only two rooms on the first floor separated by the chimney, which had been enough to warm the whole house, and the upstairs bedrooms. 

Everywhere in the original portions of the house, both on the first and second floors, there are little reminders of who America used to be, and what this place used to mean. England’s dusty cross stitching hangs on the walls in little frames, still, not really due to any sentimentality on America’s part but more because he had never got around to replacing them. Faded splatters of paint, once colorful but now faded, fleck the edges of a few heavy cabinets. America runs a finger over the splatters on the big china cabinet, likely collateral from one of his many childish art projects, and passes over the dust forever jammed into the crevices of the motifs carved into the wood. 

This is not America’s first house. That would be the rudimentary cabin that England first built down in Virginia. But it is a house that he spent much of his childhood in, and the very walls relay that old life, when the days were warm and he would wait for letters containing promises and settle into arms that would encircle him totally. 

Canada arrives late in the afternoon and finds him at the back of the house, sitting on the ground in the cold, dusty storage room.

“The whole place looks spotless for once,” Canada remarks, letting go of the handle of his suitcase. “Were you possessed or something? What do you have there?” 

Cradled in America’s lap is a checked chest, opened to reveal a little collection of wooden soldiers, formerly red uniforms now a rusted brown. “Hi, Matt! It’s just a bunch of old crap. I could donate it to a museum, do you think? Or sell it on eBay.” 

“Hi, Al. Looks really old. If these toys have been here this long, there must be a reason why you’d keep them.” His brother looks around the cramped, windowless room, the only light an overhead fixture with a loose wire, so the room goes dim every so often. Cobwebs hang in sheets from the corner of the ceiling, and all the other objects in the room are dull with a thick layer of dust. “It’s kind of filthy in here…” he trails off. 

“I don’t go in here that often. Don’t need to, and it’s kind of creepy.” America sets the box down and crawls over to a much larger chest, undoing the latch and sticking his hands beneath a protective sheet that had been laid over top of the contents. He pulls out a coat, a faded red ochre with embroidered embellishments. There are moth-eaten holes in the fabric, but it was once obviously a very fine, charming, yet humble piece. 

“This isn’t mine,” America holds it up for both of them to examine. An explosive sneeze rips itself from his lungs, sending a cloud of dust into the air. 

“Gross.” Canada makes a face as America sniffs, the grit entering his nostrils. “And it’s mine. Was mine.” The suit seems so slim, fit for the lanky figure of an older child or perhaps a young teenager, so very different from both of their current frames, which are all broad shoulders and long, sturdy legs. 

“Really?” America scans the subtle floral designs around the cuffs. “Why is it here?” 

“I–I don’t know.” Something painful and awkward passes over Canada’s face for a moment, and his gaze moves from the suit to the other objects in the room, from the crates of old records, CDs, and books, to the pieces of furniture standing upright and silent, shrouded in white sheets. “It’s probably from, um. The first time England brought me here. After France gave me up. He showered me with gifts, mostly toys and clothes to match yours.” 

And then, of course, the next thing America pulls out of the chest is another suit in the same shade of red but with different embroidery at the cuffs, the buttons loose and the expert stitching unraveling a little where the sleeves meet the body. The two coats lie side by side before them: a matching set. 

America does not remember much from that time, only that he had been ecstatic when England brought home his brother, Canada–so intriguingly neater, quieter, and introverted than himself, despite their mirrored faces. “It’s weird that I have your clothes,” he observes, a little lamely. 

“Not that weird,” answers Canada, as he moves his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m going to go put my things upstairs.” 

“Master bedroom’ll be on your left.” 

“I know.” 

While Canada is settling in, the sound of his footsteps above resounding on the ceiling, America squeezes into the pantry and takes stock of what he has: a row of boxed mac ‘n cheese, a plastic container of dehydrated vegetables, a single can of vienna sausages, the hot cheetos he picked up on his way up here, and a half-full bottle of separated ketchup (ew). He purses his lips and figures they can just order in later from a place in town. 

The smell of savory-something wafts into the little alcove, and it makes America’s mouth water. 

“Matt, what are you cooking?” he calls toward the direction of the staircase, shuffling out and shutting the pantry door closed. 

His brother’s voice travels down from upstairs, slightly muffled, and annoyed. “What the hell. I’m not cooking for you, I’m too tired from the drive!” 

Oh.

The aroma is hearty and meaty, heavy on the thyme, and if America weren’t hungry before, he would be absolutely ravenous now. He ventures out of the pantry and peers around a short wall into the kitchen, where the stove stands unused. Taking a few deliberate sniffs, he lets his nose guide him towards the front of the house. The original hearth has not been used for its intended purpose in more than a century, but there is a gleaming copper pot hanging above hot coals now, and England is spooning stew into a wide, shallow bowl. 

“What,” says America. 

England lets the bowl go as if he is placing it on a table and it just–it just stays. Floating there, resting on nothing. 

“What,” says America. 

England slices roughly into a hard loaf of bread on a tray that rests on the brick foundation of the hearth, sending crumbs tumbling over onto the floor. Unceremoniously, he plops it into the bowl of stew, angles his head down a little, and smiles at: empty air. 

“It’s a very old recipe from home, so eat up,” England encourages, moving back to the hearth with another bowl to serve himself. 

America eyes the stew from where he stands, half behind the wall, half exposed. It smells rather good, but aesthetically leaves much to be desired, as it is dark enough to almost appear black, and the excessive oil is clinging to the sides of the ceramic. His stomach rumbles anyway, more because his body remembers the smell of the stew and the feeling of it sitting warm in his belly, than because it actually looks appealing now. 

There is silence, and then England frowns. “Your brother won’t be joining us. You know he doesn’t eat much; his sensitive stomach does not take kindly to good, heavy, nutritious food. But his palate will become English soon enough. Now, eat, and you may not only start in on the cake, but you may also grow up as strong as I.” 

I did  America thinks. Maybe stronger. After the war, after England handed the crown off to him. 

More silence in which America swears there is an answer to England’s voice. Like a whisper caught in the wind, that inaudible response is lost to him no matter how hard he strains his ears, and it makes the absence of sound deafening. It is in that moment of tense stillness that he realizes the clock in the hall has stopped ticking. 

“Believe me, these small burdens on your people will not impede any progress or growth. They barely even impact daily life, although they may seem inconvenient. Anyway, your settlers have already been pushing into the territory despite restrictions on expansion,” England says, coolly, taking a small taste of the stew. “What’s a penny for your protection?” He frowns, then, as it suddenly becomes very, very warm in the room. 

America eyes the fire in the hearth, which has grown larger, though no one has stoked the flames. 

“Have you forgotten that your assemblies must ultimately answer to Parliament? Wars are expensive. Maintaining peace is expensive. That much, I can understand–how I have torn my hair out in the effort of playing arbitrator during your personal squabbles with poor Canada.” 

“Um, England. Are you controlling the fire, because it’s getting a little hot,” America tries, ignoring how familiar the scene is, how he knows–but won’t admit–that this is one of those memories he buries deep, a perfectly lovely meal ruined by his pride which, even back then, was sometimes strong enough to rival England’s. “Hey–”

The flames in the hearth erupt with a growl, escaping the confines of the metal grate and brickwork to lick the off-white walls. All around him, the room is red, red, red, bleeding with an unheard, unuttered protest. America falls against the wall, clinging on to it as if the whole house were about to fall upon him. 

“I am here now!” England asserts against the roar of the fire. “Why must you yell and make such accusations? Sometimes I wish you were more like your brother. Even if I was gone for a while, I am here now , with you.” His posture is all youthful confidence, his thick eyebrows furrowed in both incredulity and an entreaty. 

America doesn’t know how to make it stop, this memory playing out like a film reel. His heart burns a little from the onslaught of emotions. 

He remembers sitting at the kitchen table that used to be in this room, close to the hearth. He hadn’t meant to make England upset–or maybe he had, just to get a reaction, prove a point. It was just that England was his world, the measure of everything. 

The fire quiets down to a soft smolder, but the heat in the room is suffocating still. England’s gaze is bright and scrutinizing, boring into something America can’t see.  

Even now, does America ever measure up? 

England brings the spoon up to his lips once more. “Now, are you going to help us finish all this perfectly fine food or not?” 

It feels like the question is directed at him, and America falters, “I mean, I didn’t know…This isn’t…” This isn’t real and he can’t be speaking to me, a logical part of his brain reasons, even as all his bodily senses protest otherwise. 

England closes his eyes as if he is composing himself, burying the exasperation clawing just underneath the surface of his self-control, and then he reopens them, turning his head. There is a cold, creeping feeling branching out from a numbness in America’s legs, and he shrinks a little, backing away closer to the wall. But he really needn’t have. The moment America is about to make eye contact with England, the apparition is gone, and both the fire and the stew with it. 

Without the fire and coals in the disused hearth, the room feels eerily cold and dark. The late afternoon shadows in the corners seem to laugh at him, and as he sits there against the wall, alone and dumbfounded, he swears that he is being watched. 

“Who were you talking to?” Canada emerges from the staircase, pulling on a hoodie. “Why are you on the floor.” 

America blinks. The room looks normal again, the last rays of the shrinking autumn sun bathing the furniture in golden light through the gaps in the diamond panes. “That window glass was imported from London,” he notes. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” he dodges, putting his ear up to the plaster. “I was checking the walls for mice.” 

“Okay,” Canada responds, drawing the word out a little with a raised eyebrow. “While you’re at it, you should also check out the electrical. I think something’s messed up. The lights upstairs keep blinking on and off.” 

As if on cue, the wall sconce by the front door flickers out. A few quick taps on it sends it glowing to life again, but it soon fizzles out. Busted bulbs are just as common as faulty wiring in old houses. America figures he’ll have to stop by the hardware store at some point. 

Canada offers to head in to town for him. “I need to buy us groceries anyway. And if all the lights get busted tonight, you might piss yourself.” 

America pouts. “That’s not true!” 

Canada gives him a dead look. 

“Okay,” America relents, “I’ll go with you, give me a second to put on proper clothes.” 

“Nope,” his brother cuts in, putting a hand up to stop America’s sprint for the stairs. “I don’t need you filling the cart up with snacks and candy. Just stay here and continue cleaning, and checking for mice, or whatever.” 

Canada’s headlights back out from the driveway and, with a crunch of gravel, they disappear down the road, out of sight. 

Okay, so maybe America is crazy, or, or that bagel he had for breakfast this morning was a little past its shelf life. No big deal. Still, he passes through all the rooms and turns the lights on, leaves the curtains drawn back so he can glimpse the faint light coming from town, and sprawls out on the living room couch. His thumb hovers over the keypad on his cell phone. Rolling his tongue along his teeth, he pushes out a long breath and presses call . 

The phone rings and rings. Finally, England picks up. “America,” he says, sounding raspy and unfocused. “Thank god .” 

Loud background chatter and music blare from England’s end. “How drunk are you?” he asks. “Don’t answer that. Where are you?” 

“Pub. Good pub. Bit rowdy. And not very.” 

“Not very?” America is practically shouting into the receiver, hoping to be heard over the ruckus. 

“Drunk.” 

“Right.” So England is in a crappy hole-in-the-wall somewhere that probably smells like grease and ale, getting sloshed out of his mind as he is wont to do, and is most definitely not in America’s Massachusetts home inspecting his furniture and making dinner in a hearth that’s been boarded up for years. “Why did you say that when you picked up the phone?” 

“What? I said–I said America.” 

“Uh-huh. ‘Thank god.’” 

“‘M fine, really, just happy to hear your voice. Stupid. Stupid Francis.” There is a pointed rise in commotion in the background, and something distinctly shatters amidst the fuss. 

America grins. “Is he there with you?” 

“Beard. Pervert. Hair–I’ll cut it off. I’ll cut it off. Cut it off. You know what I mean.” 

“Hey, Art.” America, laughing, runs a hand through his fringe, idly pushing it back and feeling it fall back down onto his face. “Knowing you, you were the one groping him.” 

“Wasn…” 

“Yes.” 

“Was not. America, love, I have got to go. Our flight is in two hours, and I have still got to pack and– fucking hell, France, for fuck’s sake, where did you misplace my wallet?” America listens to the muffled arguing, blinking. “How am I to pay the bill when–? America, goodbye. I’ll see you at the meeting.” 

“Listen, England, instead of finding a hotel room in the city, how about you just come out here and, and I can tidy up the guest room for you, so–” 

“‘S all right. Don’t trouble yourself, lad. I’ll be perfectly fine. Give my love to Matthew. Ta.”  

He hangs up and America checks the time. Tries to ignore the sound of scuffling feet upstairs.  

–

Canada arrives with the groceries, which they dutifully put away. Despite the now fully-stocked pantry and refrigerator, dinner consists of the cheetos and diet cokes and the little can of sausages split between them. They settle in on the couch in front of the TV for two hours, until America leaves Mario Kart going while he is in the lead in favor of adhering his lips to Canada’s mouth to taste his teeth. 

Whenever they fuck it feels like a mad dash to fill up every empty crevice between their bodies. It’s less about border geography and more like memory. Canada sucks on the skin on America’s neck like he used to suck America’s thumb raw in their shared bed; America rams a fidgety leg between Canada’s so they are entwined properly, chest to chest and hip to hip, just as he used to do when the fire in the hearth was not enough to warm their little limbs against the chill. Tonight feels just as cold as it used to feel centuries ago, with the autumn air leaking into the drafty bedroom. 

Lying still beside each other, sweaty and spent, America asks him what it’s like to have sex with France. 

“It feels very…neat,” Canada says after a long moment in which he rubs tiny circles into America’s shoulder. “Why? Are you planning to?” 

America makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “No!” Then, he repeats more calmly, “No. What do you mean ‘ neat ?’ Like, boring? Or is it just, like, vanilla?” 

Canada smacks him lightly. “That’s not what I mean!” 

“So then it does get pretty raunchy.” America deduces, and waggles his eyebrows. 

Canada moans hoarsely, covering his reddening face. “Shut up.” Through his hand, his voice comes softly. “It feels like everything is arranging itself back into the correct order. Like…a shattered glass rising back onto the table and fixing itself, or…or like a missing rib sliding back into place. You know?” 

America squeezes Canada around the middle tighter, pulling him closer. Canada’s breath, in and out, dampens the air against his chin. “Sounds like you’ve given it a lot of thought. I think I get it.” 

Canada nudges away and gets up on his elbow, peering down at America. “Is that what it’s like with England?” 

That’s the question, isn’t it.

America can’t get to sleep, knowing that there is a ghost outside of his bedroom door pacing the halls, rattling window panes, and, in general, haunting. Canada lies soundly snoring on the bed beneath a nest of blankets. Falling asleep before him was really an asshole move, America thinks, so he shakes him awake. 

“Mattie, we left the TV on.” 

A groan. “Turn it off then.” 

From somewhere in the house below, a cabinet door slams, the noise dampened only slightly by the gusts of wind pushing against the walls and rustling the few leaves that still cling to the trees. America yelps. “I’m not going down there by myself. At least come with me, you don’t even have to do anything.” 

“It was just the house settling. We can leave the game running and put it away tomorrow,” Canada mutters, face pressed into the pillow. 

Another slamming sound echoes beneath them, this time heavier and louder, most likely a door. “You can’t be serious,” America cries, punctuated by a skeptical, not panicked, laugh. 

“Old house. Weird noises. Drafty. It happens.” From the sound of his voice, he is on the verge of falling back asleep. “No big deal…” 

“Canada!” 

Canada is snoring again. 

“Jerk,” he spits, and then caresses his brother’s hair where the strands are splayed out on the drool-stained pillow. America will just take a quick trip downstairs to settle his nerves, and then he can cuddle up to Canada under the mess of blankets. It will be fine. 

If he listens very closely, he can just barely hear the video game’s catchy, buoyant music rising up from below. America knows this house like the back of his hand, could probably navigate it blindfolded, and he can list off every flaw within its walls, from the leaky faucet in the downstairs bathroom to the broken lock on the storage room door. If he wanted to, he could creep silently around the creakiest floorboards. Which he does not do, this time; instead he pushes his way into the dim upstairs hall and proceeds to stomp-run through it, all the way down the steps until he is standing in the well-lit living room. 

Breathing quickly, America shuts the console off, followed by the TV, and kicks an empty can of diet coke out of the way. He’ll get Canada to tidy everything up tomorrow. In the meantime, at least he can turn off all the lights, saving a little on the electricity bill. Starting from the back of the house, he flips off the lamp at the back entryway, then the various lights in the kitchen. Gradually darkness overcomes the first floor. The only illumination comes from the windows, and the clouded sky is letting only enough light through to barely see by. 

America could swear it’s due to the lack of light in the narrow halls that the walls seem to curve inward, pressing in on all sides with each groan of the structure against the blasts of wind. He imagines the house is curling in on itself, whimpering in the cold, each joint straining. 

Very soon America finds himself at the hearth again, thinking only of darting back into the safety of bed. He could do it in five seconds flat. The case clock strikes thrice. Hadn’t it stopped working earlier? 

England is waiting for him by the stairs. 

He stands there at the base, looking more like a phantom than ever, wearing only his white nightshirt and cupping the steady flame of a candle. “Come, off to bed with you. I have allowed you to stay awake long enough.” His face is illuminated from below, the shadows of his features stark and severe. All of America’s senses hone in on one point: the drape of the nightshirt over England’s otherwise naked body. There is only darkness except for that light which England holds in his hands, a burning star. 

Without further prompting, England ascends the stairs, his feet barely alighting on the surface of the steps. 

There is only one direction to go. America climbs the narrow staircase after him, watching the shifting of those sure shoulders under the loose fabric. Nevermind that the space feels claustrophobic as America’s hand skims the wall on one side and the bannister on the other. The figure before him is perplexingly solid, yet a single misplaced breath on America’s part and it seems like England might dissipate, scattered once more into dust in the bones of this house. 

Outside, in the distance, gunfire erupts. The fighting has begun. The militias have intercepted the regulars after their futile search for stored arms; They will fight all the way to Boston, and then for another seven years, as a pit opens in America’s stomach like a line of ripped sutures. 

Each burst of noise shakes the picture frames on the walls and the light fixtures, and seems to rattle even America’s skull, for his eyes shudder in their very sockets. His vision collapses into twos and threes. Nothing adds up, especially not the fact that there is a battle happening in a night as dark as this. The discrepancy resounds like a bell in his mind, but before he can follow the clear chime to its logical conclusion, England’s voice reaches for him, as through a prism. 

 “Precious thing, do not lag behind,” England admonishes without looking behind him. “Who knows what creatures lurk in the shadows, rearing back on their haunches to gobble up naughty children who are not yet in their beds?” He chuckles, then, low and ominous. 

America feels peculiarly indignant as he used to when he was young, after England tormented him with stories about witches with horrific faces, changelings, and all sorts of demons that desired to pluck the organs from his chest. Yet the threat of hidden dangers only makes him draw closer. 

“You’re going the wrong way,” America points out when England reaches the top of the stairs and turns right, not left. 

England continues rightward as if America has not said anything. “Of course I will sleep in your bed with you. You need not ask. The night air is bitter, and I would be dreadfully unhappy if you were to catch a cold. Hurry now.” He glides into the room that used to be America’s, before America took over the master bedroom for himself. As he turns, America catches the way the candlelight makes England’s skin glow warmly, draping his exposed collarbones in dancing orange light. 

More gunfire, this time accompanied by a violent artillery blast. 

But it’s night, and armies don’t fight at night, and America forgets that Canada is only down the hallway. He feels only anger. 

“England,” he chokes, and shivers there on the threshold as he feels the pain of separation–the pain of the limb as it is severed from the body. “Make them stop fighting. Why won’t they stop fighting?” 

Rebellious brat. 

America looks up sharply. England is standing between the canopied bed and the little desk, with the wash basin against the wall to his right, his reflection murky in the small mirror above. He looks expectantly at him lingering in the doorway. Everything, the walls, the furniture, the window, the bed, appear sunken in, collapsing under a fizzing pressure in the air. 

“America, what is the matter?” England’s lips move around the words, but then there is his voice again, an echo half a step behind: America, you don’t understand what they’ll do to you. 

How is he doing that? 

“If you continue to stand there, I’ll blow out the candle and go to sleep without you.” 

You argue in defense of them, crying that the punishment is unequal to the transgression. 

Static in his ears. Eruptions of fire and smoke outside, and yelling. 

“Come, let’s get you warm.” 

They’re going to take you away from me. 

When America steps into the bedroom, England has disappeared again. It is startlingly dark. He smacks the wall where the switch hopefully is and breathes a shaky sigh when the overhead comes on to reveal an empty bed, a still room. 

He awakens in a cold sweat in his own bed. He can’t get warm, even when he wraps himself in a blanket and shuffles to the bathroom to run his hands under the warm tap. On the way back, he makes a detour and peeks into the guest room. 

No desk stands by the window, nor a wash basin–just the bookshelf and the wardrobe he had placed there himself. The guest bed, fitted out in striped sheets, sits approximately where his childhood bed once stood. On chilly autumn evenings and shielded underneath the quilt that England had sewn himself, they used to hold one another close, their mingling heat trapped behind the confines of the bed canopy. The hairs on England’s wiry legs had felt a little rough on America’s skin, but it didn’t matter when their bodies pressed so close together that England’s thumping pulse rocked him into the cocoon of a deep, dream-filled slumber.

America wonders if it would feel the same to lie in England’s arms now, with different intentions. Would he feel just as safe, cherished, and beloved with England’s tongue in his mouth? 

“Al, are you awake?” Canada calls from below, snapping him back to the present. “I’m making breakfast. Pancakes and bacon.” 

A warm syrupy smell is already drifting up into the upper floor, and the distinct sizzle of meat on a hot pan punctuates his brother’s words. He shuffles back to the master. 

“Awesome!” America laughs, and means it a little. It’s still cloudy like yesterday, but the thin rays peeking through the grey promise some sun. 

Still encased in the blanket and wearing his pajamas, he dives for his phone when it starts buzzing loudly, buried within the sheets. 

“America.” It’s England’s voice, sounding polite. Not drunk. 

“Don’t you ever start with ‘hello?’” America greets, glancing at the time. He’s lying on his stomach, kicking his feet, which hang off the edge of the bed. “What’s up?” 

“I’m at a café full of modern yuppies and tourists.” A crunch comes through the phone speaker. “It’s called Tatte. Their pastries are tolerable. I just thought I would let you know that we’ve arrived in Boston.” 

“Tatte’s are everywhere. Where’s France?” 

England clears his throat, and America imagines him patting his mouth clean with a napkin. “Getting the coffee. We’re going to do a bit of sightseeing. How is Canada doing? Would you boys like to drive over here and join us?” 

“Canada’s makin’ pancakes for us.” 

A scoff. “Spoiled.” 

“Only ‘cause I deserve to be pampered. Ha ha!” America rolls over, stares up at the ceiling. “Thanks for the invitation but, nah. We’re planning to have a couple ‘in’ days before duty calls. Have fun, though. Grab some fish and chips at Faneuil Hall if you get hungry.” 

“Why would I come here to eat–” 

“Gotta go. See you later, Art.” America hangs up on a chuckle, extracting himself from the blanket. 

He thumps down the stairs and, arms wrapped around himself for the chill, makes for the back door to check if the winds the night before have wreaked much havoc upon his yard. 

America stops dead. 

The storage room door is open. 

The lights inside aren’t on, and there are, of course, no windows, so the room is dark and shadowy even while the rest of the house is bathed in a diffused morning glow. Just inside, the matching coats are still lying on the open trunk, side by side. 

He pulls the door shut without lingering on anything. Forces it when it jams. 

Canada is already seated at the kitchen table, half finished with his stack and scrolling on his phone when America enters. “Took you long enough.” 

“I was talkin’ to Artie,” he retorts, plopping down into the chair to dig in to the plate that Canada very kindly set for him. “What were you doing in the storage? Did you find anything cool?” 

Canada spears a bit of bacon into his mouth and shuts his phone off, apparently disinterested in whatever social media has to offer this morning. “I wasn’t. I’ve been cooking since I woke up.” He watches America hesitate while bringing a piece of pancake dripping with syrup up to his lips, and waits until America is done chewing before asking, “Why?” 

“Nothin’,” replies America. “Must’ve forgotten to close the door last night.” The bacon is good, and so are the pancakes. He doesn’t fail to notice that the maple syrup is grade A, poured from a sizeable can, stamped with the words Made in Canada. There is no reason why a lump should lodge itself in his throat, make it hard to swallow and speak. 

A door crashes shut upstairs. America jumps in his seat. 

Canada only raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Did you not hear that. Jesus. Is there a window open somewhere?” America shakes his leg, shovels more food into his mouth.

His brother sighs across from him, shakes his head, then gets up to put his empty plate in the sink. “Weirdo.” 

As the morning unfolds, Canada does not cease to throw him odd looks every so often, and manages to keep his mouth shut even as it’s obvious that he is itching to ask him something. America maintains a cheery mood in spite of it because, after all, there is more work to do around the house and the repairs won’t get done if he ends up arguing with Canada instead. 

He sits on the floor and hammers the stretcher between two chair legs back into place ( gnores the erratic knocking coming from inside the storage room), smooths plaster over a particularly glaring notch in the wall beside the window (holds his breath unconsciously against the sweet smell of tobacco curling about his nostrils, making him dizzy), and by late afternoon America has gone from room to room, properly screwed in the loose door stoppers, and applied WD40 to all the hinges. 

“You must have a lot of energy,” Canada notes as he lifts his feet off the floor so that America can push the vacuum between the couch and the coffee table. His brother is slumped back against the cushions and watching TV. A promotion for some horror movie marathon is playing on the screen, judging by the shrill screams and the montage of classic flicks. 

America should answer. He should say, “Cleaning and fixin’ stuff are like a good workout,'' or, “Maybe I do, meanwhile you’ve just been sitting on your butt all day!” but he doesn’t. A shadowy figure flickers in and out of his periphery, and it’s really starting to freak him out. 

Canada sits up, crosses his legs, lowers the volume of the TV, and says loudly over the drone of the vacuum, “America. What’s up with you today? You’re jumpy, and you’re cleaning like someone’s hypnotized you or something.” His eyes follow America as he pushes the vacuum into a crevice against the wall, the clunky thing thumping against the furniture. 

It’s at that moment that the TV cuts out and the screen shoots to black–for a few seconds, just long enough for America to notice–before the signal returns and the ad emerges once more from colorful static. 

Canada is still staring at him. 

“Did we just lose power?” America shuts off the vacuum, which he knows had continued to suck up dust despite the TV crapping out. He knows, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t want to be seeing (hearing, smelling, touching) things that Canada, apparently, isn’t. 

“No,” Canada responds, slowly. He shifts to get up. “Are you sure you’re–” 

From upstairs, a fanfare blares, and America perks up as if snapped out of a reverie. Unsure if it is actually ringing, though, he busies himself with wrapping up the vacuum chord, until Canada stands and reaches a hand for him. 

“Are you going to get that?”

“Oh!” America bounces back a little and swerves away from Canada’s outstretched hand, before making for the stairs. “Yup! Hold on.” He feels eyes on him as he ascends, and this time they are definitely his brother’s. 

“Hi!” America greets, maybe a little too loudly and enthusiastically after glancing at the caller ID. “Where are you? What’s up?” 

“Er,” stammers England, probably holding his own phone a few inches further from his ear. “America. I’m by the water. Some restaurant professing to be in an original eighteenth-century structure. Deliberately rustic and almost charming, but the piss they have on tap is rotting me from the inside.” 

“Aw, can’t be so bad that you’re calling me just to complain about it.” 

“Actually, no.” 

America waits for England to continue and rocks back and forth on his heels. “Engla–” 

“So I’m coming up after all,” England interrupts, his words abrupt, rapid, and coming out altogether. He clears his throat over the distinctly French, uproarious laughter that explodes in the background. “Spain arrived early for the meeting, too, and he’s somehow found us. Or he coordinated with France to rendezvous here without consulting me.” 

America can imagine England’s thick eyebrow twitching, and he snickers. “You’re jealous.” 

“No!”  England covers the mic with his hand, but the muffled yelling comes through anyway (‘I am not calling him for–We are not–!’ ). “Shut it. Those two are insufferable when they are together. I don’t suppose the guest room is still available for me?” 

Always, America is about to say, but bites his tongue in time. “Yeah! And I just swept in there. I could come pick you up in–well, right now. I could come get you.” 

“No, that’s–Damn it, I’ll have you know, this is a perfectly normal call–” 

There’s shuffling on the other end, and what sounds like a slap, and suddenly it’s Spain’s voice laughing through the receiver. “¡Hola ! America, do not let Arturo into your house. He blames me, but he is only trying to put his hands on–” 

From close by, a belligerent cry: “Antonio, fucking cunt, I’ll rip your hands off, I swear to bloody satan!” 

“Oi, oi ¡ calmate ! Where is your sense of humor, paquete? Okay, chao, America. Please take care of el bichito inglés.” 

Once England finally wrangles the phone back, he groans, “You don’t have to come get me. I’ll rent a car. It’s about an hour drive, so I can be there around 8 or 9 tonight, if that’s all right.” 

Of course it’s all right. “Do you need the address?” he asks, and then thinks, shit, of course not.

“No, I think I can find it just fine. See you soon.”

Chapter Text

England is coming. 

There is a bothersome little voice at the back of his head saying that England is here already, that he’s wandering the halls somewhere and causing the doors to slam, and the electricity to cut out. Well, he certainly can’t entertain two Englands, even if one of them is probably only a hallucination borne of the centuries-old dust spiraling through the air. America resolves to go the straightforward route and demand the ghost (spirit, echo, dream, whatever) to quit haunting him. 

On his way back down to the first floor, America almost trips on his own feet. England is standing at the front door with his coat over an arm and a hand on the doorknob. For a moment he thinks England is early and has somehow traversed twenty-odd miles in a few minutes, but then he realizes: this England is wearing a cream-colored cravat and holding a sturdy traveling coat, moving his arms into an open invitation for an embrace. England is not early. In fact, he is far too late. 

“I regret that I must depart so soon,” England frowns. No lines emerge upon the youthful planes of his face as he does so.  “I have a job to do, across the Atlantic.” Behind him is an early morning sunrise, the air whispering inward beckoning a temperate, hay-scented breeze. 

The words tumble out of America’s mouth, not so resolute and assured as he would have wanted. 

“I want you to leave.”  Straightening up, he levels his gaze with England’s. “You have to leave. Right now.” 

England grimaces. “I know you’ll miss me.” A weary, apologetic look passes over his features, but it is gone in an instant. “And I you. Do not fret, darling; I will send you letters and gifts aplenty while we are apart.” 

America’s mouth draws into a thin line. Sure, England used to make good on his word, would send dozens of letters and wrapped parcels to him on the packet ships, but over time America began to hear less from him. Received fewer presents, fewer assurances that England still remembered he even existed across the Atlantic. Eventually, the length of time between his visits grew longer, and longer, until one day England showed up looking older and America thought himself grown. 

It’s stupid, really, that the memory playing out before his very eyes drudges up the old hurts. He wishes he were not feeling the self pity, the anger, and the yearning that currently gnaw at his insides, especially because he and England are close now, again, and have been since the war. 

“I want you to go,” America demands, flatly, with no bite, but England is already turning away. 

As he watches England step out into the warm sunlight, he thinks, Oh, god. Don’t go. 

—

England arrives in a forest green Mini with union jack tail lights and mirror caps to match. Just to embarrass America, likely, because he gets out of the car with a little smirk on his face. 

“America,” he acknowledges. Typical. No “Hello;” not even a polite, “How are you?” Only: America. 

America rushes toward him without bothering to pull on a jacket, shivering as he tightly wraps England in his arms and bounces in place. 

“Ow! Overgrown whelp. Matthew is thoughtfully taking my bags in, and you are crushing me.” But he raises his arms to wrap them around America’s middle, too, sticking his nose into the place behind America’s ear. “Yes, yes, good to see you. Let off me and get inside. What are you doing out here without a coat?” 

America smiles, gleeful, stepping back at England’s insistent push. “Forgot it! Doesn’t matter, we’ll be inside soon anyway.” 

“Dunce,” Canada says as he comes by with luggage in tow. 

America sticks his tongue out at him and grabs the handle despite his brother’s soft protest, tugging it through the open door. “Gimme that. I can be helpful!” 

As America turns away to set the luggage down in the foyer, he glimpses England cupping Canada’s face in his hands. “Now, let me take a look at you,” England murmurs where he still stands, backlit in front of the headlights. They exchange quiet whispers behind America that he can’t quite make out, shuffling to pick up both sides of the luggage with a chill night wind moaning through the trees. 

With all three of them inside, America escorts England upstairs. They have to travel up in single file and the stairway is cramped. 

“Careful with that,” England warns, but America only laughs as the luggage bumps against the crowded walls, leaving skid marks. 

He uses his hips to push the guest room door open and sets the bag down with a heavy clatter. “Ta-da! Here we are: home sweet home. For the next day, at least.” 

England grumbles a word of thanks and tips his suitcase to lie on the floor. As he stands upright, he drapes his jacket over the back of the seat and undoes the top few buttons of his shirt, surveying the bedroom in silence. He looks like he wants to say something to America, but doesn’t. Maybe that’s where Canada gets it from. There is a strain in their faces that expresses what words could never. He’s starting to think that perhaps it was a bad idea to invite England to a house where the walls are bleeding with all they used to have between them, and that neither of them ever speak about. 

Canada, leaning with his arms crossed against the door frame, does not fail to notice England's reticence. “I’m going to make some tea,” he offers. “Do you want some? Chamomile?” 

“That would be lovely. Thank you,” replies England, but his gaze is drawn to a corner of the room beside the window. 

America makes a face. “Blegh.” 

“Not for you,” scoffs Canada, and he meanders out of the room. In a minute the electric kettle downstairs is knocking and churning loudly. America decides he is done staring at England staring at nothing and moves to retreat to his own bedroom. 

“Well, let me know if you need anything,” he throws over his shoulder. 

England blinks. “Yes, I will.” 

America gets the feeling that he could have said anything at all and England would still have that inscrutable look. 

Deep into the night, America kicks the blanket off (to Canada’s annoyed grumbling) and makes his way down to the kitchen, parched and craving a cool glass of water. While chugging it down, bare feet curling against the cold kitchen linoleum, the floorboards creak with deliberate steps in the direction of the front of the house. A chill runs up his spine, dispersing along his neck and arms, and he sets the glass down before tiptoeing towards the sound. 

In the middle of what used to be the parlor, a figure crouches, hunched over and obscured in the darkness of the room. From the messy crop of hair he knows it is England, sitting back on his haunches with his arms out as if he is embracing something. 

“There, pet; no more crying. I am not leaving yet.” He maneuvers his hands and grasps invisible shoulders, and America spies a familiar The Clash shirt with a frayed collar that England refuses to throw out despite how ratty it is. His eyes travel down to equally worn boxer shorts, red flannel and rumpled. “I promise when you awaken tomorrow morning, I will be right beside you, and you may accompany me to town so that I may buy you an apple, red as these cheeks and sweet as this dimpled smile.” He rubs a thumb in a little circle, tracing an unseen dip on a hidden face. 

This is his England, not not-England. It’s eerie. His voice is ever so slightly deeper now, but that is exactly how England used to speak to him when America was much younger and the top of his head barely met his waist. 

England freezes then for a second, looking in front of him as if he has been roused from a trance, and then scans the room. America ducks away in time before England can turn around and discover him, but he hears him sigh, deflating. America does not know how long he remains there on the floor, looking thoughtful and just a little disappointed, because he tiptoes up the stairs and slips back into bed.

The next day, America is frying eggs and bacon at the stove with the clouded morning softly lighting the side of his face when England comes up behind him and yawns. 

“Good mornin’,” America chirps. He lowers the fan on the hood so he can hear better. “How’d you sleep?” 

“Fair. I’m surprised to see you up this early,” England peers over his shoulder. The yolks are small and a deep orange and America has gotten the bacon to a perfect crispness. He turns off the heat. 

“Well, I’m the host, you’re my guests, and I don’t want to act spoiled,” he teases, referencing England’s earlier accusation over the phone. America can’t help but beam in victory when England actually rolls his eyes. 

America is still grinning when England looks at his face for a moment and then leans in quickly, places a peck near the corner of his mouth where America knows the skin indents when he smiles. His face heats as his heart leaps just a little, and he tries to calm its beating in such a panic that he almost misses England’s response. 

“You always act spoiled,” retorts England as he moves away, not acknowledging the shimmer of affection that passed from his lips to America’s cheek. “But I suppose that’s my fault. Whatever. I won’t complain if you wake up early to make me breakfast.” He smiles back, but turns away, so that it is unclear whether the smile was for America or simply a twitch of his mouth to punctuate a humorous quip. 

Canada joins them shortly. Breakfast is a relaxed and pleasant matter, but he does have to fight England about who shall do the dishes, and therefore has the most manners. (America loses.)

While Canada and England take up cleanup duty, America idles by the kitchen table and finishes off a second mug of coffee, overloaded with sugar and cream and pumpkin spice seasoning. The both of them move like clockwork at the sink. It’s a two-step process that America observes from his view behind them, their shoulders bumping in the tight corner of the kitchen as if personal space didn’t matter. 

One—England with his sudsy sleeves rolled up, washing away the dirt, smears, and excess. 

Two—Canada carefully wiping each plate and utensil before propping it up in the wrack to dry with barely a clatter from his quiet, skillful hands. Good as new. 

The course continues. It’s a wonder that they work so smoothly together and are able to take up a natural rhythm, even at such a simple task as this. They must have perfected it during all those years after America left—a thought that sends twin pangs of guilt and relief thudding bluntly against the inside of his chest. Did America ever work with England like that? Perfectly, quietly, and with no competition between them? England’s knuckles brush Canada’s hand as he passes a dripping plate, between them only the push and pull of acceptance like a languid tide. 

One. Two. One. Two. 

One. Two. Three. Three? 

A staccato crash resounds dully, almost like an afterthought. Beside Canada’s feet is a broken saucer and a smashed teacup, its pale, painted rosettes obliterated, fractured into unsalvageable pieces. 

“My authoritative hand is not so heavy, although it seems yours might be, with how…clumsily you have handled the tea set I ordered from London.” There is a scowl on England’s face, as he steps around the mess of shattered bone china in spreading brown liquid. “Now clean it up.” 

America watches with alarm as Canada steps backward. “Matt, wait, watch where you–!” 

Canada whips his head around, heel landing just a hair’s breadth from the sharp edge of a broken gold-trimmed handle. “What? What’s the matter?” He scans the floor and throws a quizzical, surprised look. 

“Erm…” America’s face pales. 

England wipes his hands on a dish towel with a questioning brow lifted at him. 

On Canada’s other side, England crosses impatient arms. “If you must act so childishly, smashing teacups on purpose and wasting perfectly good bohea, then my presence–my guidance–is needed. I am sorry now to have left you to your own devices for so long. You can barely dress yourself for the part of a gentleman; how can I expect you to understand that your people must shoulder the responsibilities of an expanding British realm?” 

“Alfred? What’s wrong? Is…is something wrong?” Canada puts the rag down and is suddenly so close to him, too close, and both Englands are staring him down over his shoulders. 

America flees the room with three sets of eyes boring into the back of his head. 

In the hall, he tries to ignore the footfalls following him. At the old hearth, he presses his forehead against the stone and hopes the cold will seep into his skin, and calm the burning of his body. 

“As I grow more powerful, so shall you.” 

He turns his head and England has his hand out toward him, as if luring out a small animal. His line of sight is angled slightly down. 

“Even in my memories, you don’t see me.” America feels petulant, nauseous, as England bends down so that his eyes are level with the gaze of that ever invisible phantom of himself. 

“America, my America, we are closer now more than ever.” His expression gleams with optimism and hunger, this England who has not yet become Empire, and has not lost it. “You know this, at least, don’t you? 

A pajama-clad figure emerges from the kitchen. “What are you up to now?” England sounds concerned and a little confused, but mostly burdened. 

“Nothing. I’m just…” America swerves around England–the one with a bedhead and with the smell of breakfast grease clinging to his shirt–and makes for the back of the house, where the storage room is. “...Going to continue sorting.” He ignores Canada’s pointed look and inaudible words murmured into England’s ear. 

While fighting every fiber of his being that told him to do anything else but step foot into this room, America sits down in the dust before a great oak chest and pulls its disorganized contents out at random. At first it is chaotic, as he mindlessly sets aside baseball memorabilia, outdated bed sheet sets, a box of yellowed greeting cards, a few bundles of disintegrating telegrams…until his searching fingers come upon cold metal and scarred wood. 

The musket is a medium weight in his hands. Both flintrock and bayonet are missing, and must be elsewhere, buried underneath the collection of years. Oh, how America had loved England–had been loved by England. How terribly he had fought for things to remain as they were before the explosive politics of others had forced him into a blue uniform, put a gun in his hands, and marched him off. 

Gently, with a touch like reverence but really more of resentment, he skims over the musket’s battered finish. America had wanted to sink into the oblivion of that love between him and England, so overwhelming and so fierce that not even a war could tear them apart. Yet his people had wanted to fight, and so he stood beside them, growing fearful when his army weakened a little over a year into the fighting. They were several thousand men down, no one reenlisting, while supplies dwindled and men died around him. And England had only laughed. 

“You’ll see, poppet, this rebellion will be over by Christmas, the traitorous upstarts all hanged, and we can continue our life undisturbed.” England had bent down on one knee in front of him, standing by the hearth, and it was like a proposal. Like a knight bowing down before his liege. He had covered America’s hands in both his own before bringing them to his warm lips. “You are mine. I am yours.” Stretching upward, England had touched the side of his forehead to America’s, his breath hot and cloying, whispering, “And no one else’s.” 

England’s strong arms had wrapped around America like he would never, ever, dare to leave, while he sneered at his people’s failure. It had scared him, and disgusted him. After his army won several battles that winter, America picked up his gun and meant it. 

He thinks about England. Not the memory of him, but England, standing in the flesh only a few rooms over. In this present moment, America wishes that England would…would touch him like that again, like no one else mattered. 

The door creaks behind him, and England enters, slippered and hugging his sides as he blanches a little for the cold temperature in the room. “Alfred, I need to talk to you,” he says, and America thinks he’s going to comment on his behavior, or admonish him for his spaciness and his outburst, but he reveals instead, “There are ghosts in this house.” 

America swallows. “I know.” 

“You know?” England is taken aback, and he takes a moment to assess America’s form on the floor, the musket in his hands, and the haphazard, hulking mass of everything in the room. “You don’t usually admit to the presence of spirits, or anything supernatural.” Narrowed eyes scrutinize him. “There is something you’re not telling me.” 

“But would you listen?” America’s gaze flickers to England’s long, knobby fingers and he wonders, When was the last time you hugged me first? When was the last time you put your hands on me more than just to push me aside, to put them on me like Spain claims you want to do? 

And maybe because, even now, it is possible that England is unpredictable, he sits down beside America on the cold ground. “I would. I am.” 

Meeting England’s solemn gaze, America wants to trust him and to believe that he does care. Perhaps he owes it to England who, for all his avoidances and guardedness, does try. So he tells him. He describes the slamming doors, the electrical malfunctions, as well as the knocking and the rattling that only he can hear. 

“I’m seeing things and hearing things that I’m not supposed to. Matt doesn’t notice them, and I’m sure he thinks I’m a freak. Or heading towards a psychotic break.” 

England ponders on the confession for a moment, leaning back on his arms and staring at a water stain in the ceiling. “Do you feel crazy?” 

“No,” America replies, and it’s the truth. 

Nodding his agreement, England mulls over his thoughts before expounding, “Well, these are typical signs of a haunting. Nothing to be worried about, unless they are accompanied by malevolence. No cupboards slamming on your fingers?” 

America droops and puts his face in his hands. “Nothing like that. But.” 

“...But?” 

“I don’t know if this is even possible.” He bites his lip, wishes to god that England won’t cringe and then decide to walk away from this conversation after all. “I’m seeing you.” 

“Me ?” 

“You from…before,” America adds quickly. “It’s not a ghost. I think. I’m hallucinating,” he moans, “I’m actually tripping.” 

“And what am I doing?” A fairly large piece of dust floats down from the ceiling, but England doesn’t move or bat it away, just sits there perfectly still, expectant. 

“You’re…you’re you.” Standing there scolding America for old mistakes, glaring him down for harsh words uttered in days past. Embracing him. Adoring him. “They’re…memories…that I’m seeing. That I’ve forgotten. Of when we lived here together. Weird as hell, huh?” America means to smile lightheartedly, as if letting England in on some joke, but he fears it comes out more like a grimace. 

England ignores the awkward attempt at alleviating the heaviness around them. “Ghosts often linger within the realm of the living because of unfinished business. They can sometimes be manifestations of…unresolved feelings. Those of the spirit or, less frequently, those of their living survivors. Emotions and…memories…are powerful forces.” 

“But you’re still alive,” emphasizes America. 

The corners of England’s mouth twitch, and he looks away sheepishly. “Your younger self is here, too. I don’t really mind it. He just keeps trying to get me to play with him.” Sighing, he scratches the back of his head and looks everywhere but at America’s widening eyes. “I don’t think he’s seeing me though, not really. Not me as I am now.” 

“So how do I.” America searches for the right words, running a tired hand over his cheek. “How do I fix this?” 

“Like any problem,” supplies England, “You let it happen. Or you deal with it.” He gets up, puts a hand on America’s shoulder like he's aiming to say more, and then leaves. In a few seconds England is asking Canada something innocuous in the hall, but inside the storage room there is nothing else but America sitting alone and, in the distance, the beating of hooves. 

—

Thunder shakes the old walls, making the china rattle in the cabinet. America stands by the kitchen window and watches the deluge. Water pours from the dark, frightful clouds that seem to have stopped directly above his house. They unleash torrents of rain, flooding his sparse garden and overwhelming the gutters so that water cascades violently from the edges of the roof. 

Over the phone, Canada apologizes profusely. “I thought our food would be ready before the storm came,” he sighs. “We’re going to stay here in town and wait it out. If you get hungry, there are still leftover pancakes in the fridge from the other day.”  

The worst thing that could happen right now would be the electricity cutting out. America, being resourceful and quite experienced in preparing for doomsday scenarios, has the battery-powered lamp at the ready, and the flashlight is just a few steps away in the hall table. 

Lightning flashes repeatedly behind the trees. Thunder cracks and then ripples above before collapsing into a devastating eruption. And fate eventually catches up with everybody. When the lights in the house flicker out and America, thrust into abject darkness, flips the switch on his reliable handheld lantern (LED, water-resistant, shatterproof), it emits the faintest suggestion of a glow before dying completely.

“Balls,” America says. He dives for the table and fishes for the backup flashlight. 

“Fuck me,” America says when the old flashlight, like its high-powered companion, fails to illuminate the darkened hall. 

He runs for the front room where the curtains are swept back, letting in whatever light can escape through the stormy and disturbed skies. The glass panes rattle in their frames. 

The old fireplace is nearby. He could build a fire, America supposes; but the wood and starter are in the shed outside. There are candles somewhere in the kitchen, aren’t there? Ah, and there is England again, standing over by the hearth with his back to him. 

“What would I do if you asked to live on your own, you say?” England speaks softly, a note of disbelief in his tone. 

“I didn’t say anything,” America huffs, after getting over the momentary vertigo of England, once again, appearing from nowhere and with no warning. Really, he is getting tired of being spooked in his own home, and of speaking to someone whose presence he still doesn’t fully understand and who probably can’t hear him anyway. 

England chuckles, takes a sip from a glass, and sets it down on the mantle. “This is my house. The clothes you’re wearing, I purchased for you.” 

America is wearing an old Disney World t-shirt and flannel pajamas. Both of which he had bought with the money out of his own wallet, thank-you-very-much. “This may have been your house once, and we may have lived here together, but it isn’t like that anymore. I still can’t figure out if you’re just my imagination, or really some kind of–” Lightning flashes, and England sputters out of existence before reappearing with the thunder that follows. In that split-second moment, he is a fuzzy image obscured in static. 

“Ghost,” America finishes, feeling the blood draining from his face. “Look, what do I have to do to get you to leave?” Just like his England had said–if it’s a problem, well, America’s dealing with it. 

“Ask me nicely, and perhaps I will consider it.” 

America starts. “What? Oh.” Had England just spoken to him? Or was America again unwittingly walking the path he had already once followed? “Can you–” 

England slams the glass back down onto the mantle, the brown liquid sloshing over the sides and dripping onto his fingers. “My answer is no.” 

“You didn’t even consider it!” 

England turns around and America can’t help himself–he gasps, because for once this apparition isn’t looking away or around him at some absent younger version of him. He is looking at America, really at him, up into his eyes. His gaze follows America’s hand as America brings it up to self-consciously pull at his collar. 

“You must understand. Dear thing, I would crush you if you rebelled.” 

His words sting like a slap. America brings his hand up to his cheek. The skin is hot and tingling, as if England had really struck him, although he hadn’t come near enough to lay a hand on him. 

Of course, when this conversation first happened, England’s hard palm had connected with his face, which no doubt had been scrunched up in childish defiance. Afterward, the skin had remained blotchy and pink for more than an hour. 

Even back then, all America had wanted to do was put his cheek right back in England’s hands, close his eyes, and stay there till he died. 

England’s ghost stalks out of the room and down the dark hall, his steps falling in a deliberate, echoing staccato alongside the desperate rush of the rain against the house. America chases after him and finds him stopped, a statue in blue and gray, just outside the storage. When he comes to life again and turns around, there is a sick, pleading expression warping his face. 

“Your people force Britain’s hand. It is their fault, really. That is, it is the fault of Parliament and the Crown. Just as I regrettably neglected to spend more time with you on this side of the Atlantic, for years your assemblies were left to their own devices, left to administer affairs here. They’ve all forgotten that being part of the Empire is, in fact, a privilege, with which necessarily come obligations and sacrifices.” 

“That’s not all true,” America’s eyebrow twitches. Even in the darkness somehow he can still see the green of England’s eyes.  “They were Englishmen and wanted to fight for what they thought that meant. Protesting was the most English thing they could do.” 

England cocks his head in vague amusement. 

“Anyway, I don’t know what year you think it is,” America presses on, changes the subject, now that he’s almost one hundred percent sure that England can hear him. “Seventeen-seventy-something? I haven’t lived with you in more than two centuries. It might be time for you to…move on.” 

England is unphased. Hands clasped behind his back, he looks America up and down, and around the hall boredly. “I’m not sure what you mean.” 

“There’s nothing to explain. We lived here, together, and now we don’t.” Something bitter clutches at America’s heart when he says it, and the shadows almost imperceptibly shift, like they are sensing his wavering certainty. 

A beat passes, and then England smiles widely at him. “But, America,” he replies, and white lightning illuminates the whites of his eyes, his bared teeth. 

“America, I’ve been here all along.” 

And with that the door to the storage room flies open like it had been yanked wide, and every open door in the house slams shut in unison. 

“England!” 

England is no longer before him, but he gets the creeping sensation that he is still somewhere in the house. Watching. Waiting. 

America dares to glance at the open storage room, and at first it is a dark pit, a sudden fathomless void that is quite shocking, then upsetting, in the gloomy hall. He recoils and feels his heart leap into his throat, and his stomach drops out from under him. His vision adjusts a little and he glimpses old, dusty boxes, gray sheets hanging over furniture, piles and piles of things he’s touched and chosen to forget. 

Tearing himself away, America starts throwing open the doors to empty, dark rooms. “England!” he yells. He knows England is still here. (Has always been here.) America clambers up the stairs, skids on a few of them, and has to catch himself with arms thrown outward. 

“ Selfish. Ungrateful.” The words are punctuated by rumbling thunder, and they echo like both emanate from the same source–above and everywhere. “You think you will survive out there on your own?” 

“I am. I have survived, ” America fumbles with the guest room doorknob, but it holds fast. He curses. 

A laugh, discerning and self-assured, reverberates throughout the house and within his own head, so powerfully as to make him delirious. “You still need me.” 

Reality bends. The rooms are shifting. And the storm is so loud. America feels like retching. “I don’t need you!” The thunder is booming like, like–artillery fire. He chokes on gunpowder and smoke. America needs to find England so all of this can stop. 

“You need me. You want me. What’s the difference?” 

The only door that isn’t sputtering and dancing in America’s vision is the one to the master bedroom. He pushes his way through. 

England is sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from the door, and wearing a red uniform. The sight of it grips America’s heart. He shields his ears from the memory of gunfire, coughs against grit scorching his lungs, and collapses at England's feet. 

Just like all those years ago, he hides his face in England's lap and sobs. “I don’t want to fight you,” he inhales on a stifled cry. “They’re going to separate us.” 

Above him, England’s face is shadowed. “Swear to me you won’t leave me.” 

A hand nudges his face upward, and a thumb brushes his lower lip. 

And then America is rising up with England’s hand’s supporting his sides, and he leans in, pressing his lips to England’s closed mouth. It hurts to do even that. It burns. But he presses on, pushes England to the bed and shudders at the feeling of hands snaking under his clothes to touch bare skin. 

He doesn’t wonder how this is so tactile and visceral. It only feels like a dream, just as it did when America had first given himself over and he had been so, so afraid. England breathes hot into his mouth; America ruts down onto him. 

This, too, is a memory. This, too, is a moment in their shared history that America has buried deep underneath arguments, offhand smiles, and averted glances. 

“America, America, I don’t want to hurt you.” England smothers his face in wet kisses, and tries to push him further away, yet his hips still writhe upward, between America’s straddling legs. 

“You won’t hurt me,” America assures, turning his jaw so that England can pepper kisses all the way up his jawline and on the shell of his ear. He shudders. “I want you to hurt me.” Bearing down, he swipes a tongue along England’s lip, allows the tip of it to skim England’s teeth. 

England growls, then sucks his tongue into his mouth, hard, so America jerks forward and loses his grip on the sheets. Saliva spills from his mouth and England laps it up with his hand on the back of America’s head, fisted in his hair, keeping him in place. His other hand, gripping his waist, is harsh, unforgiving, and bruising. 

“I won’t let them take you away from me. They can have their righteous fight. They can have their Declaration, those opportunists. But I won’t let them have you.” Sitting up with arms surrounding America’s back, he places his nose right along America’s collarbone. With the subtle encouragement of hips and hands, America grinds against him, his growing hardness lining up against England’s. 

As they move, America repeats his name, a litany. “England, England, England.” With each utterance, a revelation. 

England, I will stay by your side. 

England, they’re going to take you away from me, too. 

England, how dare you raise your gun against me! 

The desire to have him–to take, steal, consume–is too great. America slips backward onto the floor on his knees and is about to unbutton those thick uniform breeches when a breath audibly catches in someone’s throat. His head snaps upward.

What a bedraggled, handsome sight England is, with his hair slick and wet as he stands there with mouth agape in the open doorway. 

America is kneeling beside the bed with his eager hands hovering over nothing. England in his brilliant scarlet and gleaming brass buttons has vanished, and there is not even a crease upon the bedspread in his wake. 

How long England has been standing there is a question that emerges from some lucid part of his mind. Perhaps not long. England could not have seen the ghost of himself but, nonetheless, he must have known what was happening–what he had interrupted. Of course he knew. Because England was there, the first time. 

“What are you doing?” England finally says. His voice is deliberately even, but his shifting eyes betray his uncertainty. 

“Jesus christ.” America plants his face in the comforter before him. He brings his legs together meanwhile, willing the blood pooling below his gut to disperse. “It’s nothing. I didn’t know you came back. I thought Matt said it was raining too hard and you wouldn’t come back for a while.” 

“Well, it let up a little.” As if to make a point, the wind howls outside and brings a spattering of hard rain against the window. The walls strain with a rippling groan. “A little,” England repeats. “Matthew was worried about leaving you alone for too long.” 

Words muffled, America asks, “Were you worried?” 

England seems to ruminate over an answer. “N-no. You can handle yourself. You’ve always been able to. But are you…are you all right?” He fidgets, body all tense like he wants to leave but knows he should make himself stay. England is always so awkward when he expresses concern, it causes America to laugh and become antagonistic in turns. 

At America’s lack of response, he continues, “I’m…I’m not going to pretend I don’t know what I think was happening. I know you’re fine. You’re always fine. So…why, is all I’m asking.” 

“What right do you have to ask that of me?” America turns his head to the side, so he can breathe more easily. 

“I care about you.” 

America swallows against the memory of the last time they were alone in this room, on a different bed, with hands around him and inside of him and his own teeth fastened to the tender skin of England’s shoulder. Mine and nobody else’s. Yours and nobody else’s. 

“But do you love me.” 

England hesitates, not because he doesn’t have an answer, but because America is white-knuckled, grasping the sheets with a tension that dares him to speak. “I–I do.” 

“Not like that,” America returns. “I know what you’re thinking and–and not like that. Do. You. Love. Me?” 

“What right do you have to ask that of me?” Clever England, always wise. Wiser, and able to use America’s words against him. They are the same, after all. 

America laughs, a little wry, appreciative, even now, of England’s refusal to back down at America’s moodiness. After a moment, he wonders out loud, “Do you fuck France?” 

 “Is that what you’re talking about?” England startles. “Is this what this is all about? Do you…do you want me to fuck you?” He closes the door so that Canada cannot hear them below. 

Yes. “No. I want you to…remember.” Just as he and Canada do. And just as Canada does, with France. How empty are those words–having sex, making love, fucking–when what he really wants to do is slip back into England, and for England to welcome him like a lost limb. 

England closes his eyes before making a decision. He crosses over in socked feet to America’s side and kneels down. “I can, if you’ll help me.” Directing a sheepish smile at him, he admits, “The truth is, sometimes I think you want nothing to do with me. Maybe that’s why this apparition of you as a child has kept appearing as soon as I got here.” 

“Things were simpler back then, huh,” America mulls it over, then shrugs a shoulder. 

“They were.” And then he takes both sides of America’s face in cold, clammy hands, wavers there with his breath hovering in the air between them. 

America surges forward and kisses him, fiercely, hard enough to hear their teeth clack together. It’s stupidly perfect, and not enough. England’s hands move to the tops of his shoulders, dragging his shirt in opposite directions, and at the abrupt pull of the fabric across skin, America thinks, just rip it off already. 

He uses his weight to push England to the ground with a heavy thump from both of them, scarcely disconnecting their lips before he locks them together once more. England takes a sharp inhale but his protest is drowned out by a whine in America’s throat. 

“America.” England turns his face to the side, spit smearing across his cheek, but America takes the opportunity to nuzzle his ear, and loudly suck a mark on his neck right below it. 

“America.” 

America backs off only to slide further down England’s body, and he fumbles out of his pants, quickly kicking each leg off before unclasping the button on England’s. He gets the black jeans down all the way past England’s hips before hands grab both his wrists to still them. 

“What, are you going to tell me to stop?” There must be something manic in America’s eyes, because England crumples a little, looking sober. 

“No. Just slow down.” Sitting up, he lays his cheekbone against the hard, rapid beating of America’s heart. “If you don’t slow down, I’ll…I…”

“You’ll what? I can’t slow down.” A half-laugh, half-wince rips itself from his throat, and England’s arms wrap tighter around him. “I’ve been remembering too much. I guess that’s what happens when you keep so much shit stored away instead of dealing with it, throwing it out.” He angles his hips against England’s lap—now only their thin undergarments acting as a barrier between them—which elicits a deep shudder from the body beneath him. 

Through his shaking restraint, England manages to respond, “You’re just getting old.” Eyes closed and brow furrowing, he adjusts his grip around America’s waist and pulls him forward and down, while allowing himself to rock upward. A dampness spreads on both their boxers that chafes, so America reaches through the front of England’s and pulls him out. In a second he has both himself and England cradled in one palm, and he strokes them together in a tight fist.  

Perhaps too tight. England swears, breath puffing hot and moist against America’s shirt. As the wet sound of America’s eager, even stroking fills the room, he chuckles a little incredulously. “When did the child that I found in that field get to be so grown?” And there is surely something pained in his voice alongside a swell of tenderness as he whispers, “My baby.”  

 “You didn’t find me.” America swivels his wrist on a downward stroke and pants as the motion spreads the wetness around, making for a smoother, stickier rhythm.  “I found you. Don’t you remember?”

Shakily, England exhales, “So you did,” and almost bumps their heads together while moving to get up. But America is heavier than him now, and clinging to him, so he instructs, “Lie back on the bed, there.” 

With England’s eyes never leaving his, America settles back onto the pillows and makes room when he moves between his legs and crouches over him. England presses their mouths together, swirls his tongue inside America’s mouth like he’s savoring it. When he leans on one hand grasping the sheets beside America’s head and uses his other to reach between them, America instinctively clasps his arms around his neck and hooks his ankles around his lower back. He sinks into the bed and takes England with him. 

England’s breaths are coming faster, harsher, and he rasps, “Oh–god.” 

It’s no matter that they are making a remarkable mess of their clothes. Their pulses beat in sync like hundreds of marching feet, climbing toward that certain swell. The ache is intense and painful and it is almost as if their bodies are fusing together, as clay from the same earth. America slots into England’s encompassing embrace, feels the blood throbbing beneath his skin rushing to meet England, its font, its origin. The overwhelming feeling of wholeness banishes the ghosts of memory with a surrender, an unmistakable recognition. 

England reaches his climax and America falls in after him. He collapses upon America, boneless, and hides his face in the crook of his neck. “I wondered if I had done wrong that night,” he says in a small, hoarse voice. “I asked myself, and I agonized over it, ran circles in my head enough to make me sick. You were so young back then. I thought maybe it was too close.” He quivers in America’s arms, pressing closer, trapping their spilled release between them. 

“But I was strong back then because we had gotten so close. Was stronger than I had ever been.” America holds him firmly against his chest. Neat, Canada had said. A missing rib sliding back into place. “I’m not sorry I left. I’m sorry it took me so long to stop running.” 

England smiles against his shoulder. “I’m sorry it took me so long to remember.” 

For once since America first arrived here, there is silence without the onslaught of memory like restless phantoms wandering through the dark. The hall clock ticks steadily, carelessly. Outside, there is the wind that was only ever the wind–the thunder that was only ever thunder–a room that was only ever a room.