Blame this chapter on my social studies teacher and my feelings about the Civil War.

Rated T for swearing, some minor themes, and (comedic) violence.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

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Mississippi

Mississippi was simple a fellow. A simple fellow with a name that young children would spell as fast as they could to impress their friends. A simple fellow who didn't mind not being able to read or say big, fancy words.

Just a simple fellow who wanted to sit along the Mississippi River and fish.

Unfortunately, Mississippi wasn't always so fond of living a simple life. He was once as rebellious as his Paw but not in a good way.

Mississippi glanced across the wide river wearily, his sharp eyes just barely making out the Union camp. He knew, oh boy did he know, that the damn Yankees were planning to take his precious river. Splitting his state in half would make fighting in it much harder for the Confederates. Not to mention South would scream his lungs out. Quite frankly, Mississippi was getting tired of South's constant screaming. His older brother wasn't the best of leaders and didn't seem to get the concept of quiet. Still, South was a persuasive bastard and managed to convince Mississippi that he wouldn't be fighting for slavery. No, he'd be fighting for his rights.

"Think they smarter than us." The solider standing beside him said. The man, the boy, gave Mississippi a toothless grin (literally). "Them Yankees think they knows what's best for us. But they don't."

"I guess so." Mississippi muttered. He wasn't really in the mood for talking. War took a toll on him, his bones constantly aching. No matter how times he was shot or stabbed or punched or kicked, Mississippi wouldn't die. Not that he really wanted too. He just felt guilty that he, a sinful man (or boy? He wasn't sure) to say the least, got to live while other, much more worthy men died.

"You look a little down, friend. Somethin' wrong?"

What wasn't wrong? Mississippi was fighting his own brothers and sisters in a war that was, in all honesty, disgusting. He was ninety-nine percent sure that at least one of his brothers-most likely Missouri or Illinois-was at that camp across the river. Most regrettable of all, he missed his Paw. And he knew for a fact he wasn't the only one. They all did, even South, but nobody would dared to mention it.

"Friend?" The boy questioned, jolting Mississippi from his thoughts. The boy was giving him a concerned look.

"It's nothing. But thank you for yer concern."

The boy scoffed and asked again, "Somethin' wrong? And don't lie to me this time."

"No…it's….no….can you keep a secret?" Not that Mississippi was concerned. The boy would probably die before he got the chance to tell anyone.

The boy's face lit up. "Sure I can! I'm the best secret keeper in all of Mississippi!"

"Alright. You see, I've got some family," Mississippi began.

"Don't everyone?" The boy questioned, cutting him off.

"Let me finish. Anyways, this family, my Paw and some of my brothers and sisters, are Yankees." The boy gasped. "They're fighting for the North and everythin' and I….I….just don't find no point to this war. If it means I'd be killin' my own family, my own Paw, my own brother, I see no point in fightin'." Mississippi knew that his Paw nor his brothers or sisters would die but he was near hysterics and details didn't matter. The two were silent for a moment.

Finally, the boy spoke up. "Then why do you still fight?"

"Fer my rights." The answer was automatic and simple, as if it'd been drilled into Mississippi's brain.

"Well if ya don't mind me puttin' my two cents in allow me to put my two cents in." Mississippi nodded in approval for the boy to continue. "Just two days ago I killed my own brother." Mississippi was about to tell him to stop but the boy pressed on. "He was fightin' fer the Union and I was fightin' here, fer the Confederacy. I was fightin' hard, blood boilin' and all, and I was killin' anyone in navy blue. Didn't even know it was him till the battle was over. And I screamed. I just screamed and screamed. They had to pry me away from his body cause I wouldn't let go of it. The saddest part of it all was that nobody consoled me. No, they congratulated me on killin 'im. They told me I was winnin' their rights fer them. That's when I realized 'This war ain't bout nothin' important' and I wanted to quit right then and there. But I couldn't. I couldn't go home and face my Maw and Paw, hear them scream my brother's name and call me a killer."

"That's enough, boy."

"Right. Point is, we all know this war didn't need to happen but we can't face the reality of not havin' it. As ole Thomas Fuller once said, 'Comparison, more than reality, makes men happy or wretched.' I think he knew what he was talkin' about."

"I think so too." Mississippi was quiet, staring at his beautiful river. It'd be mighty nice if he could go fishing again. He glances at the boy. "Hey, mind makin' me a promise, boy."

"Not at all, sir."

"When all of this is said and done," Mississippi gestured to the Union camp across the river, "you and me will go fishin'. Right here, in this exact spot." The boy was stunned, not speaking for a moment.

Finally, he smiles, big and wide. "I promise, sir."

"Good. Then I promise too."

A simple fellow who made promises, all smiles and good will.

A simple fellow who made promises he couldn't keep.

Cause that boy died a day after their promise was made.

And his name was Alfred.

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Massachusetts

Mass felt great. Punching England in the face is probably one of the things he unconsciously put on his imaginary bucket list. If only he could've seen it.

Not that it bothered him too much. Not that he needed to see things, important things. Not that he…No, Mass needed to stop thinking like that. He's been like this all his life; nothing was new.

Yet….he could never stop wishing for a chance to see. Just to see something once.

"Who are you to judge, Mass?" Maine grumbled, taking a sip of his beer. Mass titled his head, confused. Maine shouldn't be drinking; he was still a boy. At least in Mass's mind, anyways.

"Just because I can't see doesn't mean I don't know." Mass retorted. He could feel Maine's cold glare. They were fighting again, not that this was some new thing. It was funny because they were arguing about whether or not Maine should even be near a bar, let alone drinking in one.

"Yes, well. I have a beard and you don't. Therefore, I actually look older than you." Maine makes a spitting noise and Mass figures he's sticking his tongue out.

"Yes, well. I'm mature and you're not. Therefore, I'm actually older than you." Mass wasn't Maine's father nor was he the best older brother but he liked to think he knew best, at least when it came to Maine.

"Whatever. Dad said I could go drinking as long as someone older came with me. No one else was available so I got stuck with you."

Mass scoffed. "Stuck with me…don't worry. I won't 'kill you buzz'." He didn't really care if Maine got drunk. As long as he was sober, his baby brother would be safe and sound. Better one of them was sober and prepared to get them home than both of them drunk and falling into the street, getting hit by a car.

Maine took another sip of his beer, slurping loudly. "Good."

And that was that.

Several hours later….

"I'm just a poor boy and nobody loves me….HE'S JUST A POOR BOY FROM A POOR FAMILY!" Mass never thought he'd have the opportunity to see Maine, calm and collected Maine, passionately singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen. "Let me go…wewillnotletyougo! Let me go…wewillnotletyougo!" In his drunken state, Maine ended up slurring words and signing too quickly.

Mass placed a gentle hand on Maine's shoulder. "Hey buddy, calm down. We're almost home."

"Y'know, Mass….y'know I still-I still loooooove you!" Maine pinched Mass's cheek. The latter swats his brother's hand away. Maybe it would've been easier if neither of them was drunk.

"Is that so?" Mass began, deciding that if he played along, Maine would eventually get bored and fall asleep. "I'd gotten the impression that you hated me."

Maine took a minute to process his words. "Oh…oh nooooo…I don' hate you Massy-boo. I hate…I hate…I don' hate anything, to be honest." He shoved Mass lightly, giggling like a little girl. "I'M SORRY!"

Mass jumped slightly, taken back by Maine's loud screaming. "Um…for what?"

"Everythin'. I was a real dick to ya bout that whole freedom thing and I-I-I…" Mass heard Maine sniffle. Suddenly, there are giant arms around him, hugging him tightly. He can already feel his shirt getting wet with tears. "I'm a-a terrible person, y'know…tellin' you you're no different than…him!" Mass returned the hug, knowing exactly who "him" was. He forgave Maine for that long ago…the fact that it still bothered him was…unfortunate. "But ya are different! You're nice, you know all the big fancy words, you're nice, you smell like old books and that Sam Adams beer…."

"Thank you, Maine." That doesn't help at all. Maine continued to cry and they are glued to their place on the sidewalk. Mass wanted to wipe the tears from his brother's eyes but…he couldn't see where they were. Sure, he could probably guess but then he'd end up poking Maine in the eye and making things worse.

He held Maine closer and stroked his hair. "Thank you, Maine."

Mass never felt sorry for himself. He felt sorry for humans, he felt sorry for his dad, for his brothers and sisters. But never for himself.

He only wished.

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Wow, this chapter is long overdo. I'm really sorry about that. I don't have any excuses other than school and getting distracted with some new fandoms and what not. But yeah, I'm sorry. I should be updating "The Not So United States of America" in the next couples of days so be on the lookout for that.

So yeah Mississippi has had a hard knock life. Poor baby. BTW, his human name is either Tom or Huck; I haven't decided which one yet. Maybe you guys could pick for me.

Don't forget to review! Also, check out my other Hetalia stories. Thank ya'll so much!