Progress had been sluggish at best. All afternoon, America had sat waiting, waiting, waiting for a response from Cuba, of all people. Just the thought made his stomach churn. What was he to expect when the most unlikely of alliances were made? If he could stand Belarus and North Korea of all women, relying on Cuba had to be the least of his worries.

His cell phone chimed, the American national anthem blaring out proudly. No warmth blossomed as he listened to it for a moment before flipping the device open. Pressing the plastic against his ear, America abandoned all polite mannerisms as he asked dryly, "Anything change?"

A laugh rung out on the other end, condescending and cocky, "Of course! Mexico's been put in her place. I give it a week before me and the Central America guys completely overtake her."

"Fantastic," America allowed.

He shut the phone, unwilling to continue the conversation. The information he had been waiting for had been received and that was that. Without Mexico constantly starting skirmishes across his border, the efforts of his men could be focused on the real monster under the bed: Europe. Relieving Ukraine had been a bloody affair and little ground had been recovered since that fateful push westward from Russia. England and France were fighting furiously despite the rumors of their crumbling alliance.

The parallels between the opposing sides were unmistakable and brought a laugh to his lips. France and England pairing up, who would have thought? The notion seemed ridiculous but the ever changing flow of history seemed to prove the impossible. After all, hadn't he aligned with Russia and a few other unsavory characters? Whether the circumstances were the same or not, America couldn't help but dwell on the irony. If he could get chummy enough to fight a war with North Korea and Cuba, it didn't seem so unbelievable for England and France to join together.

Russia glanced over to his partner, saying nothing but understanding. He didn't enjoy war, not really. The bloodshed brought back nightmarish memories and made his skin crawl but war was necessary, war was human. They were nations, but they were human. It was an unsolvable paradox, leading to nothing but headaches and unanswered inquiries. They were nations, driven by the people's will. They were the people, adversely affecting their citizens. The line between the two was marred and blurred, leaving only the faintest of glows and etching out no universally understood truth.

America looked over to Russia, still laughing and smiling, cradling a rifle to his chest. The two were gathered in a make-shift tent, two cots spread on either side. The dwelling was not permanent by any means, only a place to rest before another push forward would be made. Their eyes were set on taking Warsaw and Bucharest. It would be an audacious move, too much land in too little time, but it was America's brain child and, with the nation's teetering sanity, no one quite felt like arguing with him. There were murmured protests, behind the back insults, and scathing whispers; though, all were ignored in favor of blissful ignorance and a childish need for his own plan to succeed. Such was what this had become, what the war had boiled everyone down to.

"Care to let me in on the joke?" Russia asked, amused. His lips quirked upward, just praying for an insane answer from a slowly maddening man. The tables had turned and all things were twisted; he loved it.

The nation looked over from his cot in the corner and set his rifle aside, "Thinking of France and England and how much we're like them."

Russia's amusement fell as he mulled over that statement. It certainly wasn't a comparison he had ever acknowledged. He and America seemed worlds apart from the other pair. Now that he really began to think, head lowering as he set aside his own rifle, maybe they weren't so different. There were a few similarities he could pick up on but any further thought on the idea was cut off by the roaming thought that America had come up with something intellectual and deep before he did. That bothered him.

When Russia looked over to his companion, there was a tense and uncomfortable upwards slant of Russia's lips, "In what ways?"

For a moment, America couldn't decide if Russia was mocking him or not. His eyes narrowed as he leaned back onto his hands, legs crossed at the ankle and stretched out before him. Mocking or not, the thought was bugging him, "Well, they used to fight too. Serious, war type of fighting. Then were kinda friends but still play fought, right? Something like that. I can't even remember. Nevermind."

America cocked his head and looked over to Russia, face rather thoughtful and fully intent on going on despite his moments ago dismissal of the subject, "I guess what I'm getting at, is you and I hate each other and fight a shit ton, but we're still fucking and working together, right? I bet it's the same with England and France. Everyone else in this war just got pulled into the crazy by us big shots."

"You," Russia blinked, "said something worthwhile."

That gentle, contemplative look left America's face as the nation huffed and sat straight once more. His legs came in and curled beneath him as America reached to a bag beside his cot. A map of the world began to unfold as both parties cramped in the tent expertly ignored their earlier conversation and, for them, light interaction. Together, things like friendliness and normality just weren't possible. Everyone knew Russia was nuts; everyone knew Russia brought out the crazy in America. They were a couple of loons engaging in something neither of them quite understood but accepted as generally unpleasant and unkind.

"Fuck you, see if you get any tonight," America seethed, not bothering to look Russia's way but beckoning the man with a lazy wave of his hand. "Get your fat ass over here so we can go over some shit."

"You're one to talk," the nation fired back calmly, scooting onto America's cot to look over the map.

America snorted, "More to love."

The banter ceased between them, leading instead to a drone of military strategy and wants of their generals. Disagreements flourished, Russia openly opposing their next attack. His point was disregarded as America produced a pen and began to mark up the already scribbled upon piece of paper. Midway through a rant, Russia stole the pen and began to draw out his own opinion, disregarding America's choice words and violent attempts to take back the writing utensil.

A/N: There's a reason this chapter is so short. It's because I'm jumping ship on this story. I've hit a huge wall with it and can't scrounge up enough oomf to ever write on it. To be honest, it was supposed to be a one shot. After all the attention it got and what not, I figured I would give it a go to make it a multi-chapter fic. Obviously, that hasn't worked out. I've just lost interest in this project and would rather tell everyone I'm dropping it rather than just never updating again. So, I give you what little I did get done. Maybe, some time in the future, I'll pick this back up. Highly unlikely, but all the same. I've just got a lot of other projects in the works and don't have time for things I don't feel passionate or compelled to write on. I'm really sorry guys. : C

I sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, thank all of you who've read, reviewed, favorited, altered, all that good stuff. You're the reason I chose to continue the story in the first place and I'm truly sorry I'm just abandoning it on you guys. Don't hate me too much? Prease? If you enjoyed this story or want to look up some of my other stuff, I'll be updating my profile with information on on-going works and works in the planning stage. But, again, sorry to be leaving this one. OTL