Follow the white rabbit ; PG - gen/drama - England x America

“America you can’t bring your friends into the house,” England tells America as he holds a puffy white rabbit by the scruff of its neck, it dangles over the window sill. He’s about to drop it outside so it can scamper into the woods or whatever when America, peering up at him, hands fisting in that soft white gown of his, starts up a loud wail.

Distressed England swings the rabbit back into the house, it’s big long feet inches from the floor as England quickly crouches down by America, whose face is scrunched up and a little red now from the crying.

“Yo-you can’t!” every word is uttered through a loud choked sob, a tiny fist rubs at the hot wetness gathering bout his eyes. It’s a motion that never fails to make England feel like he’s committed some crime (and he has committed many crimes, but that shouldn’t apply here), the rabbit fidgets a little in his grasp.

America keeps crying, before stretching out his arms to the rabbit (and England’s heart twinges because for once those arms are not for him), blubbering something that could have been “Nantucket!” England puts his foot down. Mentally because it’s too difficult in this position and the last time he’d done it America had been so startled he’d fallen over and then England had felt horrible for the rest of the whole damn week even though America had chirped in a quaky voice, trying to be reassuring- “It’s okay Iggy!”. Goodness this boy.

“You… sleeping with a rabbit will only be uncomfortable.” And dirty.

“Animals, even though they are your friends have to sleep outside. America.”

England’s voice is pleading in the small colony’s name. Yet still chiding and to be obeyed.

America peers up through watery eyes, “Bu-but sometimes your friends stay the night! Nantucket wi-will be cold! The wolves might eat him!”

“But America-“ his brain caught up with his friends, “my what have been?!”
He was going to have to speak with the fairies on this. Or the pixies. Or the goblins. Whichever one of them was setting a bad example (and potentially plotting some sort of mischief, not under his roof! Not in America’s home. It was alright enough when he was young) he was going to have to tell them what was what.

He strokes at America’s cheek, his hair- with his free hand.

“I’m sorry, but rules are rules.”

America doesn’t have to start crying for England to know he’s going to cry harder, the way his face is promises it.

“Bu-but before we met I used to sleep in the woods with my friends all the time!”

And England had been mortified, when America had told him of his life before they had met, never mind there had probably once been a time in his youth that he too had been in a far more unfavourable living situation- he had been mortified nonetheless to learn that America would sleep outside where ever amongst animals, and and savages and and around dirt and bathe in rivers and ate whatever he found in the woods, no more! He was in civilized company now so,

“Not anymore though.”

America sniffles, “It’s scary to sleep alone.”

England feels a pause ache through his chest, contemplation and guilt. America all alone…

He thumbs some of the fatter tears that roll down America’s cheek, “How about, I set up a place for Nantucket to sleep in the front room, hm? And then when you go to bed, I’ll sleep beside you. How’s that arrangement? In the morning you can see your friend.”

America flings his arms around England’s neck and he nearly loses balance and grip.

He rubs America’s small back, holds him close.

“Thank you thank you thank you!”

After Nantucket (America beams whenever England calls the rabbit by its name, England almost half convinces himself it’s for America’s pleasure only and not for his own pleasure to see that smile of adoration every time-) has been settled into a small box with blankets by the front door, England tucks America in alongside him. The younger comfortably settles after a bit of scooting and wriggling, and almost quickly falls fast asleep after finding the key way to lie down.

A luxury he would not have in days to come.

When troubled by supernatural haunts, fear of a tale he read in one of England’s books, or the rallied cries of those who would become his people, later on it would be America who would always end up gazing upon England’s face, peaceful or conflicted. Vying for slumber or something else in the contours of his caretaker's face.

But for now it is England who looks upon America’s sleeping face as he too drifts into sleep, and when he sleeps he dreams of his young America running about a green pasture, giggling as he pets and plays with soft white rabbits.

(Not all of them named Nantucket.)