Disclaimer- If this exists I haven't read it so any similarities are pure coincidence and I don't own Hetalia. *This hopefully fixes the many, many grammar errors I made the first time.*

October 19th, 1781

There was to be a party, a grand, massive party in celebration of finally achieving independence and, of course, America was invited. George and John would there as well as all the others to congratulate each other on their victory. There would be food, alcohol, and a whole lot of humans dancing with unbridled mirth.

But the one person that America actually cared about being there wouldn't be, so what was the point in going? England was supposed to be there to pat him on the back for a job well done, to finally smile, really smile, at something his little colony had accomplished. Instead he was boarding the first ship back home and not looking back.

Wasn't this supposed to happen? Wasn't he supposed to grow and prosper and be happy like everyone else? Why did England fight so hard to keep him restricted and unhappy if he'd go around the next day telling him how great a country he would grow into someday?

America shuffled into his house, not bothering to lock the door-not like anyone would actually be looking for him anyway-and just stood in the entryway. A house never felt so big until one was alone in it. It never felt so silent until there was no more noise to be made.

He set his rifle-the one donning a brand new scratch-down beside the door and slid down against the wall next to it.

Wasn't independence supposed to be a good thing? Countries fought their entire lives for it, died for it, and for what? All America felt was regret and a longing for a brother that wasn't coming back. A brother who had made it clear he would never forgive him.

So instead of going to the party and getting roaring drunk, the new Nation curled up in the cold, empty house and cried himself to sleep.

August 24th, 1814

He ran. He ran faster than he'd ever run before. He ran away from it all. The physical pain was there but the emotional pain of seeing Canada, the one he'd called twin brother, with that expression of just… triumph as he watched the flames lick up the sides of buildings. His buildings in his capitol, everything he stood for.

He just didn't understand. After the pathetic slump, America had gotten back on his feet, hadn't he? He'd gained land, made new trade agreements, made something of his own that no one else could take and England just had to-why?

England could hate him all he wanted on his own dreary island! What gave him the right to take what wasn't his? What he'd lost fair and square not half a century ago? Did he think he'd go willingly? That they'd see those ships on the horizon and quake and fear at the might of the enemy they'd made the laughing stock of Europe?

America had done it once and he'd do it again with or without France's help. He's show his ex-brother that he could fight his own battles and win his own wars.

But then they'd burned his White House and maybe it was just him, but England seemed to almost enjoy watching it. Watching him. Watching as he ran away like a coward.

Was it so bad to want the same prosperity he'd been enjoying for his actual brother? Why would Canada want to remain under that tyrant's reign when America would fully support a decision to break away? Why would he want to burn his heart?

America didn't cry this time, he couldn't find the energy to cry. He already knew that England hated him, but Canada?

Why were they doing this to him? What did they get out of seeing him suffer?

He couldn't fathom an answer. So he kept running and running and running. South, north, west, it didn't matter so long as he got away from them.

They could burn his Capitol, murder his citizens, and glorify themselves all they wanted because he was America and he was not going down without a fight. Even if he didn't win this war he would make sure England knew never to come back with the intent to kill ever again. He'd show those European bastards that this fledgling country didn't take anyone's crap. But for now he would run.

June, 1830

It was happening. It was happening and he was powerless to stop it. America found himself in northern Florida, searching desperately for one person out of thousands and hoping it wasn't too late.

"Čhíŋkš, you should not be here." He whirled around to find a woman with long, silky black hair and rich caramel skin smiling despite her tone.

"Iná… I- I couldn't stop it." His voice cracked as he ran forward, scooping her up in his arms and refusing to let go until she gently pushed away. Knowing what would happen if people saw her he quickly led her deeper into the forest away from persecution. Once they were far enough away he babbled apology after apology.

"Čhíŋkš, why are you sorry? It is the way of the world."

He looked absolutely heartbroken at those words, eyes already glossy from forming tears. "What? How can you say that, Iná?" He cried, "You know what's going to happen because of this don't you? They won't stop, they'll never stop until they can't go any further!"

She sighed, shaking her head sadly. "I've heard they call it Manifest Destiny."

"Yeah, that's what they call it." He said bitterly. He'd pleaded for days for another option, a fair option that would give both parties what they wanted without this- this genocide. Never before had he wished so much to be human. At least then he could have a say in government decisions and he wouldn't have to carry the weight of so much guilt on his shoulders.

"Čhíŋkš, you must stop believing you are to blame for this. It is in our nature to expand and prosper and grow, čhíŋkš. It is your destiny to make it across the land and who would I be to stand in your way? A mother should never have to bury her child, it is nature's way to be the other way around."

He might as well have been a toddler again, standing before her like that. But he didn't care. "But it's not fair, Iná. I can't- I don't want to lose you too. I don't want to be alone again."

It was her turn to wrap him in an embrace, both crouching on the forest floor and rocking back and forth like she used to do so many years ago. "You will never be alone, I promise you this." She ran her fingers through golden blond locks, always unique compared to the rest of her people, trying to soothe her crying baby. "Even when I fade I will always be with you."

"Iná, you'll suffer from this. What they plan for your people is sick and wrong and I can't do anything to stop it. I can't save you." He tried curling in on himself to make his form smaller like it used to be but he was already taller than her, had been for years now.

"Yes you can, čhíŋkš. Perhaps not in this way but you can."

He turned around in her lap to gaze up at her pleadingly, ocean blue eyes seeming endless. "R-really? I can? How?"

"You can remember. Though your people will forget, as long as you remember you can save me. You remember me and who you used to be and never let yourself forget why you became your own nation. If you can do that I will never leave your side."

"B-but how? How am I supposed to do that if everyone hates me? How am I supposed to do that if you're not here guiding me like you used to? Before England and France and the others found us?"

She shook her head again, "You have made it this far without me, you can make it even further when I am no longer in your way. The others do not hate you, they envy you. You show them who you are and who you can be and they will come around." Regretfully, she stood and he bolted up, worried that she was leaving.

"Iná, what are you doing?"

"I have to leave now-"

He moved as if to block her from going anywhere. "What? Why?"

"It is time to move on." She ran her thumbs over the tear tracks on his face, "Stop crying, for me at least. I do not want my last image of you to be a tearful one."

The words hit him like a ton of bricks. She was leaving? And she wasn't coming back? Despite that, he did as asked and the waterworks came to a shuddering stop. "Okay, Iná. As you wish."

She kissed his forehead once like she used to before giving him one last, genuine smile, then disappeared back into the foliage.

America swore he would never forget her smile, her laugh, anything about her even though he inevitably would give into destiny. But she knew that even as she told him not to, that was just the way of the world.

September 30th, 1835

He'd heard about the commotion in the West but had been caught up in the politics of the East up until today. Now he had a reason to venture to the colonial lands past the Mississippi: There was a new personification.

The sun beat down on the desert landscape as America made his way closer and closer to his border with one of many Nations that hated him, scouring the land for this supposed new personification.

Half of him wanted the child-Texas as he went by-because it would mean new territory for him but the other half saw the prospect of something far better than a new slab of land to add to the map. He saw a future friend.

So as he made his way through the dusty dirt roads his mind was brimming with the possibilities ahead. Finally, there might be someone he could call friend, family even. He was so enraptured by his own thoughts that he almost ran into a child only a foot and a half shorter than himself, cursing languidly.

"Whoa. Sorry, didn't see ya there kid." The dusty blond grumbled but didn't pick a fight.

"And who are ya? Ain't seen ya around here before." As America stared into those dull, river-green eyes something felt different about this human unlike the others. Familiar but strange at the same time, a sensation he hadn't felt in years. "I'm actually new around here, lookin' for someone though. Maybe ya can help me?"

The kid seemed to weigh his options before shrugging. "Eh, why not? Got nothin' better to do. Got a name?"

America smiled and introduced himself, not as the human but as a Nation. "I'm willing to bet a lot that you might be the one I'm searchin' for."

The kid's eyes went wide as he realized that the random blond wasn't loony- he was actually a Nation. Then he grinned. "Well, nice ta meet ya, America. I'm known around here as Texas."

America had been expecting a child much like he had been when he first appeared, but maybe everyone was different. "Glad I found ya, Tex. Mind if I call ya Tex?"

Texas arched an eyebrow, "Only if I get to call you 'Merica. Easier to say and all."

"Deal."

March 6th, 1836

"Tex! Texas!" It couldn't be happening. Not again, not another brother lost to warfare. If his newest companion was gone he wasn't sure if he could hold back from all-out war against his southern neighbor. A war he wouldn't lose no matter the consequences. Texas was his and no one else's to take. No more outsiders were going to test his limits. He hadn't lost yet and he wasn't going to suddenly start now.

There it was. The Alamo. Bodies hadn't even been moved yet, the blood was still flowing freely from massacred veins.

"Texas!" He spent an hour overturning body after body, each time met with an unfamiliar face. Maybe he hadn't been in the battle at all? No, it was war and he'd be obligated to fight it like they all were. He fought and he died somewhere around this building.

If Mexico had made an appearance though… she could have taken him away after the execution order and America would be hard-pressed to get him back after that. No. No, no, no. Texas was here and he would be okay. He would live and not leave America like all the others. If she wanted his brother she would have to come and take him herself. This was personal now.*

He called out one more time, met with stony silence and more foreign faces. Reach a body, check his face, whisper a somber apology, then move on to the next one. That was the system he kept up for what seemed like an eternity until finally, finally he found him.

Scooping up the shorter, dead man, America willed him to wake up. "Texas. Tex, please wake up. Come on, I know you'll come back. Your land is still going strong, even with Mexico's advances. There's no reason for you to die like this. Where's my fighter, huh? Where's the guy that was breaking bottles over people's heads and laughing as he was chased out of the town? Where's the guy that left that morning with a gun over his shoulder and an unquenchable fire in his eyes?"

Blood stained his clothes, sweat stuck dirt to his skin, and his lungs ached with exertion but America didn't care. Texas was dead and that's all that mattered. "Texas… you can't leave me too. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't here to fight with you or defend you against Mexico when you needed me. But I'm here now aren't I? I'm here, so you'd better wake up so we can take on Mexico together like I promised we would. Even if my boss won't back me up I'll still come and fight."

He cradled his fallen brother closer, determined to not let him escape. The rest of the world faded into the background until it was just America and Texas. There was no war, no massacre, no politics, no nations or Nations, no death, no sadness. It was just them. America almost didn't notice the slight shift in the body in his arms, but it was like even his heartbeat froze when he felt it again.

"Th'n what're we waitn' for, 'Merica? I Wanna kick'sm Mexican ass." The scratchy, sleepy, groggy voice was suddenly the sweetest sound in the world.

February 2nd, 1848

Fresh ink on the treaty, signed United States of America, made it official. She'd lost and he had won just like he said he would. All that was left to do was congratulate his brother, who was back in his room waiting for America to return with the news.

Sauntering his way through the halls in the afterglow of victory, America knocked on his brother's door.

"Tex? You in there? I- I just signed the treaty. It's official." When he received no response, America tried the door, finding it surprisingly unlocked. He frowned, figuring Texas just forgot to lock it when he left, and stepped inside.

The room was only big enough for a single bed and a side table, obviously lacking a personification. "Tex?" Could he have left to go get something?

America walked further into the room and something bright flashed across his vision, drawing his attention to the bed. Lying folded on the perfectly made comforter were a pair of wireframe glasses on top of folded paper.

He gently shoved the glasses aside and unfolded the paper, assuming it to be a note from his brother.

'Merica,

I guess I never really was one, but I ain't a Nation anymore ever since I joined the union with you. Not that it bothered me being a State and all- I was pretty big wasn't I?- but I guess it wasn't up to me. When the war ended, there was no purpose for two personifications of America so nature fixed it-

America stopped reading, the paper shaking in his grasp. No… it couldn't be. Texas wasn't… No. Impossible. Taking a deep breath he forged ahead.

I know you don't much care for making amends but I think you should give Canada another chance. Not England though, he don't deserve it yet. Now I know you're stubborn but if you do nothing else at least make up with your real brother cause he's the only one you got.

Anyway, the glasses are yours. Think of them as something to remember me by, something you'll rely on every day to see the world around you. Maybe you're isolationist now but I got a feeling that won't last much longer. Thanks for everything, you were a real brother when I needed it even if I didn't always show it.

Remember the Alamo, 'Merica. Remember and never forget it.

The Republic of Texas, 28th State, Samuel H. Jones

America read and reread the letter, committing it to memory. Without a word he slipped the glasses on his face, the frames comfortably resting on the bridge of his nose as if they were always meant to be there.

July 3rd, 1863

Union. Confederacy. North. South. Freedom. Slavery. These were the things that went through America's head as he tossed and turned in bed.

He fought another war, only this mirrored no other. His enemy wasn't visible, nor tangible. He could only hear him. Johnny, the figment of his imagination and his tormentor for two years now.

None of the rest of the world mattered to him. It was Alfred versus Johnny in the winner-takes-all showdown of the century. He could feel his people drop one by one like stones. Each one sent a pang to his heart, knowing it was his fault that they were dying.

He didn't know where they were or who was winning, but it was a massive battle that had been raging for three days now and hadn't lessened in its intensity since it began.

America didn't notice when a cool rag was pressed to his forehead, too lost in the labyrinth of his own mind to hear the calming lullaby in a language he barely understood. He just continued waging a war he would never win. Whether or not it would end up a Union or Confederate victory he didn't care. He was stretched thin between both sides, alternating between both personifications, and would end up losing in the end either way. Besides, wasn't it already a loss if so many of his people were murdering each other in his name?

While America continued to suffer, his caretaker did everything in his power to make it survivable. Russia knew the pain of warfare, more than the Nation of nine decades did, and was more than willing to help his ally through it all.

When conscious and self-aware, America would do what he could to thank the Russian for remaining with him through the worst of it. Russia could see it in his eyes, the confusion of just why he was still around when he had no obligation to stay.

And although he'd never tell him, it was because Russia had no one else, and neither did America. They were two scarred souls against the world. Why not team up to level the playing field? They were both outsiders in Europe's eyes, both outcasts that didn't deserve what Europe had.

America had been beyond upset that France and England had tried to intervene behind his back to save their own skins. Not angry upset, though he did express a wish to send over a fleet and "teach the bastards a lesson", it was really more just hopeless. England still hated him enough almost a century after the split to want him dead. And France, the one who'd helped him achieve it, was backing the man up. So it goes.

So America had a civil war. It was a rite of passage in Russia's eyes. For if the country survived, it could only grow stronger because of it. America had too much potential to let this stop him.

Russia would continue taking care of his ally because that's what friends did. He would make meals, clean the house when needed, and would take extra care to keep Texas safe. America had told him the story of the late republic, and how the glasses came to be.

He had listened intently to the blond talk adamantly about the time the two got a bit too tipsy and America had lost control of that peculiar super strength of his, accidentally demolishing half a building.

He had watched as a crack formed in the right lens, growing slowly each day after the state had seceded. As of the current battle, the crack had grown to half the width of the lens.

Russia never had magical glasses but he had a feeling that when America made it to the other side-and he would make it-they would fix themselves without his help because that's how Texas did things.

The Slav gently pat America's shoulder in a comforting gesture before leaving the room to make something for the blond to eat later. A routine he would repeat for the rest of the war.

August 12th, 1898

Another one to add to the list of people who hated him. One he'd never thought would make the list: Spain. Spain and Cuba and the Philippines. Guam and Puerto Rico though… they just accepted it.

After Russia left he had been alone once again until Spain had gotten too close and he'd promptly crushed the man in war. He didn't even feel it that time, the adrenaline of bullets whizzing by, the ever-present prospect of being alive one second and dead the next. It was just business for this war. Nothing personal on America's part.

Wake up, advance the lines, go deaf from cannon fire, take down a ship or two, make camp, go to sleep, do it again the next morning.

America stared at his new colonies, relatives, siblings. He had them now, Spain had lost them fairly, or at least that's what his government told him, not that the Spaniard had said anything.

The only thing he did say the entire war was when he signed away all those territories. He'd pushed the paper away with a sigh, a small smile actually reaching his eyes, and asked, not told, asked America to take care of them.

America at the time had simply wanted it to be over and had agreed without thinking. Now he had three Nations that hardly liked or trusted him and two that really didn't care.

Sure, he had new brothers and sisters now, but they weren't… they weren't Texas. Texas had come to him ready and willing to downgrade from a Nation to a State as long as America kept him from Mexico.

Texas had liked him, trusted him. He wanted to be around and share a few drinks with him. Puerto Rico and Guam… they didn't. They were content to stay on their islands and didn't need his help. Cuba and Philippines made it clear that they weren't accepting these new arrangements and wouldn't be going down without a fight.

America just didn't understand. Here he was, acting like a European and taking charge and control of the seas behind the shadow of imperialism and they still hated him. They acted as if taking on Spain was the worst thing he could do and it only made his image worse.

But he'd won hadn't he? He'd won rather easily. That was the system right? Win a war, celebrate the victory, and wait for the next chance to take something else. Not feel shunned even more by the people he once called family.

In the end it didn't matter. America had lived through six wars and hadn't lost yet and it had been just over a century since he'd made it officially onto the scene. They wanted to shun him? Fine. Let them. But when they needed his help because they couldn't handle living on the same continent with each other, he would just sit back and watch.

America is an ocean away, there would always be that barrier so what was the point? America is a new country, why waste your time with him? America is a brat that betrayed both his brothers, keep your distance from the turncoat.

There would come a day when they needed him and he wouldn't be there to drag them out of their ditch. Then they would see just what they'd been shoving away with distaste. He was ready for them, all of them, and they wouldn't know what hit them.

May 7th, 1915

Today was the first day America set foot on European soil since the 1600s. Today was the first day he was actively telling off his enemies in their homes.

When the war began, America laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed so hard. They were fighting each other. And not just one on one no, it was the entire continent against itself. The entire continent dropping soldiers by the hundreds each day.

And he laughed. When England and France actually asked for help, he laughed and shoved the various treaties he'd accumulated in their faces. It wasn't his war, it was their war. The Europeans. He was never good enough to join their club but now he was the happiest person on earth.

They finally needed him! They needed him so bad it was sad. But what did America need? An apology. Just one, sincere apology from his ex-brother. One clue that he didn't hate him anymore. One clue that this wasn't just business anymore. Until he received that he wasn't lifting a finger to help their sorry asses. Maybe his government was more willing since it would help him economically but personally they could rot in hell for all he cared.

His government could give them ships, money, anything they wanted because until America himself felt the need to step in, they were still going down in glorious flames.

Until today. Today he'd had enough. The rules of engagement claimed that if one declared neutrality, they were off limits. Yet time after time his sailors were still dying and being impressed into enemy navies.

And now they'd sunk a ship and killed 114 of his people. Even if they were breaking the rules of neutrality a little bit he'd warned them repeatedly to stop with the subs. Stop with the subs or there would be hell to pay for both sides.

Even if they laughed it off, obviously not taking him seriously, he had more experience than they thought. Six wars, zero losses, taking on and taking down two once-great empires.

He could fight fire with fire. Because he hadn't lost yet, and he wasn't starting now.

April 10th, 1917

It was official. He would be their savior in a war that wasn't his to fight. He blamed the need to help on all the immigrants invading the northeast. They had been begging to join since the very beginning, fighting with the reason that they couldn't let the motherland fall. 'Remember Lafayette' and all.**

Immediately after Congress made it official, America had decided that he, England, and France, needed to have a talk. If he was going to be their ally then they had to clear up a few things.

As the ship completed its journey across the pond, America realized something. As much as he hated them, as much as he suffered because of them, he couldn't let them know. Europe couldn't know how big of an impact their actions had on his country and himself because they would never give him the respect he deserved.

He would have to fake it, and fake it well. He would have to put on a mask, make up a story, make up an attitude to hide all the pain behind. They would think he'd not only survived but surpassed his childish ways of depending on others. He would have to smile.

They'd lost the right to see the real America long ago. He wouldn't disappear, just be… repressed. So as the ship made port America stood in front of a mirror and practiced the smile he'd force for the rest of the century and beyond.

He was America, what right did he have to be sad?

June 28th, 1919

They could laugh all they wanted at the idiot America. He wanted an annual council between nations? Blasphemy. He wanted freedom of the seas? It was like he'd never met them before. He thought they shouldn't blame Germany for the war? Why, he must've gone insane. Of course it was Germany's fault, he should take the fall for the entire thing.

America had never smiled so much and meant it so little. Totally guys, I dunno what my boss was thinking with these Fourteen Points. The Hero blames Germany for everything. But he didn't. He didn't know why they insisted that Austria-Hungary had absolutely nothing to do with it.

He had a large number of German citizens, as much as he hated to admit it he could empathize with them. Why couldn't England or France see past one element of the war to gaze at the bigger picture? Did they not realize this would backfire right in their faces?

He was still an ocean away though, so if it did he was still safe.

It wasn't like he cared what happened to them. Two years fighting side by side and England still hadn't shoved his pride aside to apologize. So America hadn't either. They just fought as allies, kicked enemy ass together, and acted like they hated each other.

England, try as he may, couldn't keep it up forever. When America's birthday had come around the first time the man had vanished for the week encompassing it. Naturally, America had gone searching for him because it was war and for all he knew he had gotten captured again.

He didn't expect to see the man drowning his sorrows at the bottom of a bottle. America hadn't made his presence known, opting instead to listen to the drunken rant.

Bloody git left me. He left me! The bloody United Kingdom! The bartender had just nodded, not even pretending to pay attention. And you know what? I still hate the idiot for making me feel guilty. This was when America started listening with rapt attention. I couldn't believe he'd won, you know? 'It's been 150 years, mon ami' that frog would say. As if I bloody cared when his birthday was. All it means is I get one day a year to get roaring drunk.

Even though he hadn't voiced it, America knew him well enough still that the guilt part was real. And that was enough for him. The world was changing anyway, no longer could they hide behind the ocean between them. America couldn't ignore him anymore, nor the little voice in his head telling him he'd been wallowing in the past for too long.

The apocalypse would come before either of them openly apologized, but America would attempt to at least start down that road, one step at a time. They were allies now, though even with the war over their bosses had simply shook hands and gave each other curt nods. So America would do the same, because he wasn't European. He could shove his pride aside to fix a broken relationship.

October 29th, 1929

The world stopped spinning that day. Everything came to a screeching halt as all heads around the globe turned to the single New York street that was the cause of it all, or so they said.

He felt it before he saw it, like a wave of nausea appearing out of the blue making him sway on his feet. At first he thought it was something simple, like bad meat. Then he realized it was something much, much worse.

And he was all alone, the entire world would blame America for this and there was nothing he could do about it.

But he'd been doing so well after the war! An entire decade of partying and sporting a permanent hangover. The best economy in the world and the highest standard of living for ten whole years. He even got a new roommate- Lithuania had been the best houseguest ever. Waves and waves of new immigrants poured in from the east and west and he took them all in with open arms. Finally, they were showing some respect.

So why, why did this happen? Why now of all times? The world looked up to him, he was something to be admired. And now… now he was just another mistake.

As cruel of a thought it as was, at least he wasn't the only one suffering. It was a new age, everybody impacted everybody else in at least one way, so at least he wasn't going down alone.

Europe was still licking its wounds, there was something brewing in Asia, and the rest of the world had just been breaking out of its shell. It was a critical hit, one he wished never came, but at least it happened now instead of later when it really counted.

For now though, even though the rest of the world would suffer with him, he was still alone in the crumbling palace at the top of the hill. Still the only one for miles with even a hint of what it meant to be at the top of the pyramid.

America coughed, the first of many, and decided that it was a really good time to relax and just let nature take its course.

December 7th, 1941

Déjà vu. That's what it felt like. Once again, America was dragged into a war that wasn't his to fight by the sinking of ships.

Only this time, he felt it. It woke him up in the middle of the night after tossing and turning for twenty minutes prior. He bolted up in bed, pain and shock taking over, while confusion muddled the partly-conscious part of his mind.

He scrambled out of bed and knocked the phone off the wall in the effort to make it to the kitchen. He blindly called the first official he could think of, hoping someone would know what was going on or at least where. He was so disoriented it could have been a mile or a hundred miles away and he wouldn't know the difference.

When no one answered he gave up, curling up on the kitchen floor in an effort to block out the pain. It wasn't as intense as DC had been but it was worse than the Triangle Shirtwaist fire. After endless minutes in the fetal position he'd leveled it on par with the San Fran earthquake just a few decades back.

Something in his mind clicked and he finally figured out just what was causing the torment: Hawaii, a surprise attack. He didn't know by who yet but it didn't matter. All that mattered was getting the pain to stop.

He had called it back in Paris. Germany would never settle with being a scapegoat for the war, he would come back with a vengeance worse than anyone had seen in a long, long time. It looked like he was right.

But once again, it was Europe's war, not his. Yes, he would help his allies, but only if he absolutely had to. After the casualties he suffered last time, his people were reluctant to strike first, wanting to wait to peg the other as the bad guy as per usual. America always waited for someone to attack him first, he never surprised someone in their sleep like so many others did.

He was the hero, or at least that's what he'd led himself to believe. Heroes never made the first move in anything, bad guys attacked without warning.

Bad guys attacked neutral countries in the middle of the night while making peace agreements at the same time. Bad guys committed genocide. Bad guys suffered the punishments, felt the pain of loss, watched enemy flags fly in their territory.

America wasn't a bad guy. So why was he suffering right now? What had he done wrong? He'd stayed out of the war, made it clear to Germany that he would let bygones be bygones so long as German ships stayed away from American coastlines.

And yet even after that someone still thought it was a good idea to attack him. It was a war crime, one he'd make the aggressor pay for in kind. Was he a bad guy? America didn't think so. Could he play the bad guy?

Europe didn't want America in a war any more than himself did. He was a contender they did not want in the game because he turned tables and flipped scales. He had the power to decimate armies and move a population larger than the entire Axis combined.

So they wanted to attack him? Fine. He could be the bad guy for once.

August 1st, 1945

He had never felt so conflicted before. Here was a chance to end the war unconditionally, Japan would surrender everything once he saw the destruction caused but just one bomb. But that was just it, so many lives ended by just one bomb.

If America did this, the world would never look at him the same way again. He would forever be known as the creator of The Bomb, the inventor of the next generation of weaponry.

I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.***

Japan was sick. Mentally sick. His government was a cancer that would only sacrifice more lives if he didn't stop it now. More lives would be lost on both sides if he didn't end it all here. And once Japan surrendered, America could fix him, he could help him get back on his feet and be better than he ever was before. He could be a hero again.

It was just… there would be so many casualties. No one had any clue of the power he possessed, and no one would for five more days. Once it dropped, there would be no going back. Once it dropped even his allies wouldn't trust him completely, he'd be the monster in everyone's eyes. Alone once again.

If he tried, right now, he could call Japan and warn him. He could at least evacuate the city before it dropped so less lives would be lost.

America glanced at the phone taunting him silently on the wall, literally fighting himself over the decision to call. In the end, he just walked away.

October 16th, 1962

For these thirteen days, once again it was just America and Russia locked in a war of willpower. But for this moment, not even Cuba mattered.

"What do you want, America?" No one knew he was making this call, not the president, not the spies watching around the clock, not even Russia before he'd picked up the phone.

"I wanted to talk to you."

There was a moment of silence, and for a second America thought he hung up. "You do know now is not the best time for either of us, do you not?"

America kicked back on the desk in his private radio room, glancing at the triple-locked door before answering. "I don't care about politics right now, Ivan. I want to talk to you."

"If this is an attempt at getting me to spill secrets you have truly hit rock bottom."

America cracked a smile, twirling a fountain pen between his fingers absently. "I'm not trying to get your dirty commie secrets, Ivan. This is just a talk between you and me." The pen fell to the floor and America just stared at it, not having the energy to bed down and retrieve it. "Two old souls ostracized from the rest of the planet and not- not the people we are today."

"Last I remember you are not even two hundred, Am-…Alfred." America smiled, happy that Russia was willing to just talk as old friends, not bitter enemies.

"You know I'm not counting official years, Ivan. I'm almost as old as you according to some of my scientists with the whole Alaska ice bridge thing."

"…Why are you really calling, Alfred?"

America shifted the phone to his other shoulder, picking up a new pen to play with. "Remember when you used to take care of me?" He asked quietly, Russia being the only person still alive that knew it as his real tone of voice.

He heard a sigh on the other end and the sound of something scraping on the floor. "I do." Russia admitted, just going along with it now.

"Well, remember how you told me that if I didn't make it out of there alive you would kill me yourself?"

Maybe it was just static but he swore he heard a chuckle on the other end. "I do." Russia repeated in the same tone he used before.

America sighed, taking the pen apart and setting the pieces in a neat pile on the desk. "Does that promise still stand?" This time, Russia didn't answer, but he didn't hang up either. "Where do you think we'll be in ten years if we both make it to the other end of the tunnel?"

"Probably in the same positions we are now." Russia never answered the first question.

"It truly is MAD isn't it? Not a century ago the worst death I had to worry about was getting drawn and quartered. Now it's being vaporized in a big flash of light."****

"That was the worst death you can think of? Oh, Fredka, you always had it easy. But yes, it is rather mad." There really was a chuckle this time.

"Hey! You know I don't like that nickname."

"That is precisely why I said it, Fredka." America grumbled a few threats before deciding to reassemble the pen.

"What if it wasn't me?" He asked, even quieter than before.

"What did you say?" There was a chance Russia might not have heard him over the static but he most likely wanted to make sure he heard him correctly.

"What if instead of me, America, against you in this war it was England or Germany or someone else. What if it was never me?"

"I don't think I would enjoy it as much." Russia said. America could picture the thoughtful expression on his face, the connotation was so obvious.

"Why not?" America should have known better than to push the man but he really wanted to know. This thing in Cuba could take a turn for the worse in the next hour and they could both be dead.

"Because… it wouldn't be you." Russia paused, as if carefully deciding his next words. "I believe I know you better than you know yourself. I cannot say that for anyone else. I have seen you at your worst and best and know exactly who and what I am up against. I would not want this any other way."

"Even if we all die tomorrow?" He heard the verbal equivalent of a nod and placed the newly fixed pen back in the desk drawer. "I can't say I'd want it any other way either, Ruski. Even though it sucks right now… I'm not alone anymore."

"We are several thousand miles apart, Fredka. You are very much alone."

America knew it was a tease but took the bait anyway. "Not what I meant! I mean… yeah we're enemies right now and probably will be until we die but I still remember that soup you used to make me with the red veggies. I- I sound like a girl right now don't I?"

"It's called borscht and it is made with beetroot. And yes, you do sound like a girl."

"Whatever, point is that even now, with the world split up between us and us bein' polar opposites, you aren't the worst enemy I've had."

"…How considerate of you."

"Just don't go blabbing to your commie friends that I said that! This is between you and me, Ruski. Don't ask, don't tell." Russia didn't respond. "…This is the part where you tell me you don't hate me as much as everyone thinks you do."

"But I do. I do very much. You are singlehandedly ruining my life, Fredka."

"…You don't really mean that do you?"

"Perhaps not, I am not sure. But I do not want to share a bottle of vodka with you and that is how I draw the line between friend and enemy."

America laughed at that, the first time in at least thirty years. "Of course it is, Ruski. Wouldn't have it any other way."

"Do svidaniya, Fredka. It was nice to talk but we both have a war to get back to." Even though he said that, Russia didn't hang up.

"Yeah, I guess we do." He was about to hang up when a thought occurred to him. "Wait Russia!" There was no response. "Ivan you still there?"

"Do svidaniya means goodbye."

"Yeah I know that, just one more thing."

"What do you want now?"

"If I win this thing, we're gonna share the best bottle of vodka on the planet. And another and another until I can't see straight."

"And if I win?"

America snorted. "As if you'd beat me, Ivan. Nine wars down and I haven't lost yet."

"I would not call Korea a victory."

"I didn't say I've got a perfect record, did I? Just that I haven't lost."

"Yet. But fine. If you win we'll split my entire collection, and if I win I will tell the others of how you act when you are drunk."

America gasped. "You wouldn't. Ivan no! No one's ever seen me drunk except you, Tex, and Toris."

"Are you afraid to lose, Amerika?"

"No of course not! Fine you have a deal, either way I get vodka."

"So do I."

"….Goodbye, Ivan."

America hung up the phone and picked up the pen from the floor, laying it back in the drawer with the others before heading back upstairs to face the rest of the world.

Even with the prospect of imminent nuclear destruction looming over his head, America smiled. It wasn't forced, or faked, or an act. It was a genuine smile because for once, finally, there was one person that knew him.

And when he won, because he would, he always would remain stuck at the top and unable to get down, Russia would fall down a few rungs on the ladder and he would be alone again. But for now he would enjoy the company while it lasted.

Notes:

10/18/1781: Day of the Battle of Yorktown (the final battle in the American Revolution)
8/24/1814: War of 1812, day that the Canadians reached the capitol and set it on fire
5/28/1830: Passing of the Indian Removal Act of 1830, allowing the Trail of Tears to begin
9/30/1835: ~When the Texas Revolution began, their war of independence from Mexico
3/6/1836: End of the siege of the Alamo and massacre of all POWs left behind
2/2/1836: Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo ends the Mexican-American war
7/3/1863: Last of the three-day Battle of Gettysburg (one of the deadliest of the Civil War)
8/12/1898: A Treaty of Paris ended the Spanish American war and Spain lost full control over Guam, Puerto Rico, Philippines, and Cuba
5/7/1915: Sinking of the Lusitania
4/6/1917: The United States declares war on Germany and officially allies with Britain and France
6/28/1919: Treaty of Versailles ends World War I, most of president Wilson's ambitious Fourteen Points went ignored by the other allies
10/29/1929: Black Tuesday, the day the stock market crashed and the Great Depression began
12/7/1941: Pearl Harbor
10/14-10-28/1962: The Cuban Missile Crisis
* "Come and Take it", motto of the Texas Revolution
** The Marquis de Lafayette provided to us by the French in the Revolution
*** Robert Oppenheimer said that after witnessing the bomb for the first time.
**** MAD: Mutually assured destruction

Translations:

Mon ami: "my friend"- French
Iná: "mother"- Lakota
Čhíŋkš: "my son"- Lakota