A/N: Just some angst practice with these two. Oh Emily, why are your ideas so awesome?
DISCLAIMER: Hetalia doesn't belong to me.
HISTORICAL NOTE: General Washington and Comte de Rochambeau were both leaders of the American and French armies during the American Revolution, respectively. This fic takes place right after the Siege of Yorktown, one of the last battles of the Revolution that pretty much secured America's victory against England.
It was raining.
The thick droplets acted as a glue, sticking England's hair to his face and his uniform to his skin. His knees were sinking down into the mud, his hands curling around the dirt to ground himself, to stop the dizziness and the tremors that were running through his body. His sobs came out of his throat like mangled chokes, his cursing becoming incomprehensible gibberish as he kneeled there, having just lost his little brother, his America, his everything.
America felt a tear roll down his cheek at the sight, but quickly brushed it away, smearing the dirt that coated his hands on his face in the process. He stepped forward one tentative step, then another, slowly, something he didn't want to recognize weighing him down.
He reached the other man, and not knowing what else he could do, (and his legs were heavy, weren't they?) kneeled down rather sloppily in front of him.
England raised his head violently at this, and America winced at seeing the pain and torture that was so evident in his eyes. His expression changed, however, and soon America was blocking a punch that would have hit him square in the face otherwise. He grabbed England's wrist, and then the other as it was hurled at him only a second later. America would have laughed at this, because now he was in complete control of his sovereign nation, but instead another tear fell down his face, mixing with the rain and falling to the ground.
This wasn't how freedom was supposed to feel. He was supposed to gain something, not lose--
Fear contracted painfully in his stomach at that thought. He was going to lose England, he was going to lose England, he was going to--
He decided there that he needed to be closer to England, because he really did just want everything to be over, and he wanted to go home and eat those horrible scones, and read those boring books England always wanted him to read, and he'd even wear a goddamn suit if this would just end already.
So, using his advantage, he pulled England forward by the wrists until they were chest to chest. England gasped and protested, flailing his arms as America let them go. America paid no heed to this, however, wrapping his arms securely around the other man's shoulders.
England let out a painful cry, because this was what he wanted, this was what they had, and why wouldn't the bloody rain just stop?
He gripped America's uniform with both hands, pulling him down even further until there was really no space between them anymore. He tucked his face away in the crook of America's neck, so close that he could feel his heartbeat against his cheek.
Seeing uneasiness settle among the soldiers, General Washington got off his horse, giving a worried look to Comte de Rochambeau. The Comte responded by lowering his head, a quiet "I expected this would happen" being conveyed in the gesture. The General mumbled a curse under his breath but nonethless waited, hoping beyond hope that the new nation would come to his senses and stop acting so foolishly already.
America pulled back slightly so his breath was warming England's ear as he spoke. "I—" He began, but paused, letting a sob come out of his throat. "I just… wish… there was some other way…"
At this, General Washington decided that enough was enough. He had feared this happening from the very beginning, and America was treading dangerous ground. He nodded to Rochambeau and walked to the two nations, hesitantly reaching down and touching America's shoulder.
"We have to go, America, we won." He said, his deep voice causing the young nation to grab England tighter against himself.
"America…" Washington tried again, this time securing his hand around the nation's upper arm. "You can't stay here. Your people are waiting."
His grip on England began to slacken, but at the thought of leaving him, because this time they may never meet again, it returned even stronger than before.
"You have to let go, America," He persisted, gently pulling on America's arm, his voice becoming stern. "You have to go meet your people."
His grip loosened once again, this time all the way, pulling back from England so they were face to face. Tears were still falling from their eyes, both of their faces blotchy and red. England was looking at him expectantly, hoping beyond all hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd stay.
"I'm sorry," America whispered, and stood up, joining his General. He reluctantly turned around, following him back to his troops.
Review? I'm still practicing at angst, sorry if it's fail!