Yo! Here I am with a oneshot dedicated to mangarox14, who got the 300th review on Seven Little Killers! I promised whoever got the 300th review would get something and so she requested a oneshot featuring America and England during the Civil War, with a slightly psycho America with a kind of personality disorder. XD Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think and maybe I'll consider doing the same thing for whoever gets the 400th review!

And just for a random bit of info, as of now, Mr. and Mr. Cold War is dedicated to Miss Chelle, because she's mangarox14's buddy and she also leaves great reviews that make Lucky and I squeal with delight.

Disclaimer: Hetalia is owned by a very well to do individual in Japan. All I own are 4 AP classes that are quickly devouring my soul.

Dedicated to mangarox14, who always leaves great insight on SLK. Read her stuff, review her, just remember I have claim to her second born child. XD

The field was quiet as the final puffs of cannon smoke drifted through the breeze. Both gray and blue uniforms were streaked with red and brown as they spangled the battlefield like fallen fruit from a dying tree. The September sunlight was beginning to rise with the new day, shedding light on the result of The Battle of Antietam-the bodies, and the single person who stood on a nearby hill, clutching his head and arguing with himself.

"You deny your people what they need to survive," America said in a low voice, eyes dark. His voice suddenly rose to a higher pitch, and the exhausted, bloodshot eyes widened as he exclaimed,

"They don't need to hurt people to survive! It's wrong!" Then, as if turned off by a switch, his expression darkened once more.

"They aren't people, they're property, all of them. Think of them all like cattle," he hissed into the cool Maryland air. America's expression did a horrified shift and the nation began shaking his head wildly.

"No."

"Stupid."

"No."

"Brainless."

"Your wrong!"

"Cattle."

"They're human!"

A deep silence hung in the air until America's face shifted again.

"I'm sorry," he said softly and touched his own cheek. "You know I didn't mean that, but that doesn't change the fact that you're being unfair. You're denying us the very thing we fought against England for. You'll kill us all. Do you even care? There's more to this than slaves."

"I know," America said his voice pained and clear. "I understand, but I can't ignore this." America's face darkened with frustration.

"Why won't you listen! You've placed unfair tariffs on our goods, you don't respect your own states, and as for slaves, even if we let them go, what would they do? Where would they go? They know nothing but the life you and I have provided for them. Until you realize this, we will continue this senseless fight. By refusing to do nothing, we're still killing our people!"

"You're wrong!" America yelled, falling to his knees. Fingers knotted in blond hair as he screamed out into the battle field.

He had watched.

He watched the battle, fought and argued with himself as his people slaughtered each other like stray dogs fighting over a scrap of meat. General Robert E. Lee had been forced to withdraw and the Union was sure to declare it a victory. A flimsy victory that left most of their troops in shambles as well, but a victory nonetheless.

Their nation, America, had declared himself a fence-sitter, refusing to lift a hand against any of his people, be they right or wrong. Instead, he forced the conflict in on himself, thus dividing his thoughts and actions into separate entities.

Now the nation who had raised America stared brokenly as the younger one tore out chunks of his hair and hurled insults at himself, sobbing over the thousands of young men dying.

England just stood and looked on as America wept. There was a part of him that wanted to watch the downfall of the boy's stupidity and foolish idealism, but he had yet to truly pick a side. He himself had abolished slavery some time ago, and found it horribly hypocritical of America to call himself 'Land of the Free' when he still used human labor. Still, he wasn't here to judge. America was doing perfectly well on that front without England adding to it.

"You're bad! This is the true evil! You're taking away what they need!"

"No! It was wrong to overlook slavery! It was wrong!"

"Our agriculture will collapse without slave labor! You're condemning half your people to starvation! With that stupid excuse for a man as President!"

"How dare you? How dare you condemn half those people on the rich's plantations to slavery?"

"It doesn't matter! You're being foolish, can't you see?"

"You're wrong! You're wrong! You're wrong!" America hollered to the morning sky, face constantly in and out of shadow and hands clutching the top of his head as if it were about to split in two.

"No, you're wrong!" England felt his heart twist as America abruptly lowered his forehead to the grass, fingernails digging into his scalp as he growled in frustration.

"Dammit!" he snarled into the earth, fingers shaped like claws as he continued to scratch wildly. "Dammit! Why don't they see? Why don't they see?"

"Why don't they see? Why don't they see?"

England's people were fascinated by this civil war, debating what side to choose: the Union or the Confederates. If his Queen recognized the Confederates, then that would give them access to allies and weapons they so desperately needed. It also meant America would undoubtedly be split in half and become two new nations. America, as he was, would die, and as much as England claimed to hate this very nation's guts, even thinking about him dying…it was unbearable.

Despite everything the little bastard put him through, he loved America deep down. He had always loved America with every fiber of his being. Problem was, America had about as much emotional intuition as a dead animal, and so he said things that made England hurt. This then lead to their constant fights and spats, America thinking he was being cute and funny, and England genuinely hurt by the younger nation's barbs and inability to see it.

Still, this wasn't the time to think about that. He had come to try his best to comfort America. Maybe he couldn't directly help as a nation, but as a friend and a true embodiment of emotions and feelings, he might offer him a shoulder to cry on.

Although he did want some sense drilled into his former colony, this was just plain awful to watch.

Silently, England stepped behind where America knelt and bent down, wrapping his arms around the crying nation. "You're a bloody imbecile, do you know that?" he sighed. America froze then tiredly looked over his shoulder at the nation behind him. After a moment of what England assumed was a brief inner debate about whether or not to shove him away, America wearily leaned against him.

"I'm glad you're here, asshole," he whispered. "I…" he trailed off, took England's hand and placed it on his cheek, letting his lips tilt in a half smirk. England bit his lower lip at how deathly cool the other nation's skin was. America's face contorted in a shock of pain briefly, before settling back into the previous worn out misery.

"Someone needs to check in on you every now and then," England sighed.

"Russia's been doing that for you," America laughed. His voice was hoarse from the all the screaming he was doing not too long ago. "He's my only friend, which really makes me depressed now that I think about it." England rolled his eyes and let his thumb run across America's icy cheek. It wasn't right for America to be so cold, so like Russia.

"When Russia is the only one that can stand you, there's obviously something wrong in that impenetrably thick skull of yours," he found himself muttering. Then he added as an afterthought, "You know, you need to pick a side, or you'll…" His throat clamped shut on him. God! Why was he being so silly and emotional? Just say die, you incompetent git!

"Die, I know," America murmured. England felt a momentary rush of relief that he hadn't had to say it. "But I can't pick a side." That momentary rush promptly evaporated, and England felt his hold tighten around his former colony.

"Why not?" he asked, voice strained and quiet as he watched the sun continue its climb in the sky.

"Because I'm America," the younger of the two replied. "They all belong to me, both sides. No matter who is right or who is wrong, I can't hurt either of them. So I'll fight with myself until I win." He looked into England's eyes and the other nation was shocked by the shadows dancing within the usual bright blue. He looked awful, with dark circles under his eyes and his generously sunned skin now pale as a ghost's. It broke England's heart as he brushed the sweat dampened hair out of America's face.

Even the fairies were worried, fluttering about America's face, invisible to him, chattering in their strange fairy talk not even England understood. (Although he was currently working on interpreting their bell-like gibberish, but that wasn't the point.)

"You are crushing state's rights!"

"United we stand, divided we fall," America growled, eyes flashing with fury. His face was absolutely frightening, but it soon faded back into weariness and he simply buried his face in England's chest, shuddering violently. England was aware of a strange wetness seeping through his coat, and sighed, stroking the back of America's head.

America looked so tired, a shell of what he was supposed to be. He was supposed to be the embodiment of stupidity and optimism. Why was America putting himself through this? All he had to do was join the Union and he'd stop having to represent two sides of the same God dammed coin! The Union was what America wanted, right? The Union wanted to be one nation with no slavery. Wasn't that what America fought for? Justice? Of course this war was about more than just slavery, but that was the one moral issue America was beating himself up over constantly.

It was torture to sit here and watch the one he loved the most destroy himself. America was the one he allowed to hurt him, to leave him on his knees crying in the rain, and all of it would mean nothing if the boy with that sweet smile just suddenly didn't exist.

"I don't want you to die," England admitted quietly, grimacing at how horribly wounded he sounded. America stared at him for a moment before his face changed again. His eyes suddenly darkened, but contrary to the dangerous glint, he moved closer until their foreheads touched.

England felt his breath stop short, realizing his hand was still on America's cheek. He didn't pull it away, but felt his fingers curl into the back of America's jaw, fingernails gently grazing behind the other nation's ear. A few silky strands of blond caught between his fingers, and although the softness was familiar, it seemed misplaced with the expression on America's face.

"I love you too, more so than you will ever know," America whispered against his lips, letting the back of his hand rest against England's cheek. Then, his face changed into a look of surprise, obviously at how close he'd gotten to the other nation. However, to England's utter shock, America didn't pull away.

Instead, he leaned forward, and touched his lips to England's. It was so quick, England didn't even get a chance to close his eyes. America merely smiled the ghost of his cocky, arrogant grin, and shook his head. He was laughing lightly.

"Sorry."

"We'll see how this works out."

"I won't die. If I did, who'd be crazy enough to deal with your womanly mood swings?"

"I'll still be here. If we separate, and you and I can be together."

America's transitions were marked by twitches of the face and that horrible darkening of his eyes. England didn't like the darkness, didn't like the different side of America. He loved America's bright blue eyes and his stupidity. He relished in their fights, even though they hurt him sometimes. He wanted America, not half of him, and not two new countries.

"I want you to get through this in one piece," England said. He let his brows furrow and he pulled America back in for another hug, hiding his face in America's shoulder from the now glaring sun.

"I will," America promised. Pulling away, and cradling England's face in his hands then depositing another tender kiss to the older nation's lips. England felt a strange prickling sensation in the corners of his eyes and closed them. England always imagined kissing America would leave him warm and fulfilled, but America wasn't himself. His hands felt cold and weak against his cheeks, and his lips were dry and thin. England didn't jerk away despite this. He loved America and was still happy to be this close to him. The contact lessened and America pulled back, eyes closed in a grin as he spoke.

"I argue with myself, and I may lose to myself sometimes, but I'll pull it together eventually, promise." For the first time, America seemed whole once again and England smiled, smacking him playfully on the back of the head.

"Well, good," he laughed. "I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have an idiot running around to make myself feel better."

"Oh, funny." England stood and helped America to his feet, saddened at how much taller he had grown over the years, but also at how horribly thin he appeared. Half of America was trying to starve himself into submission, but England knew it would never work. Civil war was like an endless cycle, and if a nation didn't choose a side...well, it was pretty much a nation's way of committing suicide.

England was about to turn away with a simple goodbye, but stopped himself. Instead, he took America's hand in his own and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"You know I do care about you, right?"

"Really? It's kind of hard to tell," America chided. England frowned. "I'm joking. Yes, I know." America's face changed again, and his hand tightened around England's. He didn't like it. It was too tight, too possessive. It hurt.

"I know. I need you. Help me be free. I love you." America's expression then saddened and he fell to his knees again, hand going limp and flopping to his side like a dead fish. England followed after, placing both hands on America's shoulders.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Just remember what you promised."

"But I'm tired."

"I'm so tired," America sighed, looking down at the grass. For a moment England feared the younger nation was going to give up, but was filled with relief when America pulled him into another embrace, arms still full of strength. "I'll be okay." England let his face bury in silky blond hair, smelling the blood, sweat, and new found coolness. He loved America. No matter how much they hurt each other nothing would change that. England had chosen a side in his heart, but sadly, his heart wasn't the voice of his people.

Um...hope you liked it? I hope I did USUK some justice, because although it is not my favorite (Lucky's favorite though!) I happen to find it cute. RussUS for the win! XD Anyway England was pretty neutral throughout the whole Civil War, but there was a lot of debate on whether to recognize the Confederates as a separate country or not.

As one reviewer kindly pointed out already, the Civil War was not about slavery, but it defiantly was a key factor to a lot of the south's unrest. I used it here because that seems like something America himself would beat himself up over. Also, during this time Russia was the only world super power that openly supported the Union and wanted the US to be one country.

Uh, not as fluffy as I origonally planned, but I hope it was enough. I got dizzy writing with the whole personality shift, but I really hoped you liked. Let me know how I did. :D