Author: Pixie-Rings

Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia

Pairing: England/America

Genre: romance, spiritual

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: APH belongs to Himaruya, and the countries factually belong to themselves. Or their bosses and the people that live there, rather.

Word count:

Warning: second person America's POV

Summary: they have conquered each many times over the years…

A/n: I love England/America. I don't care if so much of the fandom belongs to them, I can only be happy about that. Also, no dig at anyone in particular, but how can you like APH and not like yaoi? Most of the implied pairings are exactly that – it's like going to a concert to see a singer you hate, or going to a sushi restaurant when you don't like raw fish. Bizzarro…

You peer out from behind a tree, staring at the men in funny clothes. They're not dressed like you are, in buckskin your people give you and bare feet. They're also nothing like your people. Your people are red, these are pale. They look like you, but they're certainly not like you. They feel different, you know it instinctively, like your people: fleeting, ephemeral, here-today-gone-tomorrow. They talk in funny voices, but you can understand. You speak all your people's languages, like your brother speaks those of his, but you wonder whether you can speak this too. They don't look evil, even though they are wary, watching the woods carefully.

You step out, walking tentatively forward. One hears you and aims a dark metallic tube at you, but relaxes once he looks at you. He's puzzled though.

"Look, a child," he says. Soon they're all studying you. One walks over and bends, smiling.

"Hello, sonny, where did you spring from?"

You open your mouth to answer, but you can't fit the words of their language out yet. You shake your head, on the verge of tears.

"What have we here, Tyler?"

You look in the direction of that voice. The man that's walking (no, striding) over is younger than nearly all present, but he commands their respect. The man stops at noticing you, and stares.

"A little boy, sir," says Tyler. The man... No, he is no man. He is just like you, and like your brother, you realise with a thrill of joy. The young man shakes his head and kneels down, and you can't help but rush forward, eager to touch him, to discover how similar he is to you. He takes your hands, smiles at you. He studies you, your eyes, your face, your hair.

"He is no little boy," the young man says gently. "He is America."

And you know that's your name. You hug him, and he cradles you warmly. It feels so right. And you know, he has already conquered you.

You watch him, kneeling in the mud, grime on his clean white trousers and on that pristine red coat. From now on, you are on your own, you are your own. It's a thought that used to fill you with anticipation and joy, but now you are living it, it is bitter and harsh. Because you can no longer have him near you. It should feel like a victory, like a conquest, but it doesn't. There is no joy in winning when you lose.

You've been watching him. You know he watches you back. There's something beyond curiosity there, in those observant and unfathomable green pools. He studies you as assiduously as you study him. He cups his chin, hiding his mouth with his fingers. He's pretending to listen to Russia, but his eyes never leave you. And your eyes never leave him. Was he always like that? So attractive, so obscure? You're so expressive all the time, so you can't help it when your eyes glaze over, turn from day to dusk with a newly-found want. He smirks behind his hand. They say you can't read the atmosphere, but sometimes you can read people. He wants you just as much as you want him.

France is sitting next to him, also looking bored, and he smiles diabolically. He can taste attraction in the air like a snake scents a rat, and he glances surreptitiously between you both. But who cares about France? You can't tear your eyes off him.

Unfortunately, outside of these meetings, he just as repressed and ill-tempered as ever. You never remembered him like that. Before, when he raised you, he was sweet, if a little stern, but you probably deserved it, little hellion as you were. But now… Now that doesn't matter at all. He's turned from parental figure into a sexual creature to be attracted to, and you are. Immensely. However, whenever you try to speak to him he puts you down easily, acidic and cynical to your optimism. It's like he's playing a game with you, to see how long you'll last. But you really can't complain, as you answer in the same way, if a little more boisterously.

When you finally corner him after weeks of heated discussion and battles of gazes, he caves. You kiss, and you know by his smile against your lips that he has conquered you again.

"You've grown so much," he murmurs. He traces the contours of your face, following your nose with the tip of his finger, trailing the shape of your lips like he's once again mapping your coastline. You smile and kiss his fingers, your freedom-coloured eyes gleaming mischievously.

"You better not see me as a kid anymore, England," you say. He winds his arms around your neck, he twines his fingers into your hair and pulls you down.

"Oh, I certainly don't," he purrs. He kisses you, tongue demanding entrance which you can't help but give. You're discovering one another anew, charting routes to be retaken, rivers to be renavigated, mountains to be rescaled. As you share of each other, culture and geography and history (his tea, your coffee; his Cornish caves, your Californian sequoias; his ancient towns, neatly farmed fields, wet weather and chalk cliffs mingling with your bustling metropolises, wide plains, tornadoes and red sandstone; his conquerors and conquered; your natives and your settlers, and all of your immigrants) it is mapmaker's joy.

Your movements in synchronicity are like the waves against your coastlines, chewing away at you to give you your shapes. Your mixing voices and words of encouragement are echoes of the language you both share. His hands on your hips are like the cartographer's pencil; your fingers in his hair and on his back are following motorways and Roman roads. It's not just lovemaking; it's a journey of discovery, a voyage to a new world. It's a whole new conquest.

You wipe your hands on your jeans. You're so goddamn nervous you think you might break from the tension pulling you tight. A part of you just wants to get it over and done with, but another part wants it to last forever, so it won't turn into a memory and eventually fade as memories do, wants it to become the drawn-out rest of your life. You knock on the black-painted wood, swallowing. The 'special relationship' has been going for years, and now you just want it to be without end. He opens the door, sees you and frowns.

"America, what-?"

You drag him outside on to his front doorstep, his tartan slippers making an odd scraping noise on the welcome mat. You get down on one knee, clearing your throat and offer a small box.

"England... Marry me?" Please don't say no, you don't add. Your gaze falls on the boot scraper. You're sure you'd never find a piece of old black iron so interesting in other circumstances.

"Oh get up, you great lout," he says. You look up and he's as red as Spain's tomatoes. You stand with a wide grin.

"We're in the middle of Whitehall, for fuck's sake." He raises his hands up, presses them to your chest, digging into the I 3 New York t-shirt and the plain gold band is on his finger (Alaskan gold, of course). You grin, pull him closer, and kiss him. It's deep, full of the passion you've always felt for him, and he answers eagerly despite the fact they're in full view of anyone who cares to see. Finally, you've conquered him.