A/N: I had friends running the Boston marathon, and family who were there watching it. Thank God, they are all safe, although they were locked in their homes during the city-wide shutdown. I also have cousins who live near West, Texas. They are far enough away so they were not affected by the fertilizer plant explosion, and the poisonous gases should not affect them, but still...two tragedies so close together, with family and friends affected, really rips at my heart. It's taken a while for me to get over the shock, but I felt it was time to express the grief in my own humble way.

We Are Boston, We Are West, We Are Americans

a Hetalia fanfic

by Rhov

April 15, 2013

…

America loved exercising. It was the only way to stay strong and keep fit, although he always treated himself to a Big Mac, fries, and Diet Coke after each race. Today was special, the Boston Marathon, the world's oldest annual marathon, and America was damn proud of that fact. For 116 years, America had run this race held on Patriot's Day. Today, he joined 26,839 other runners, while half a million people watched and cheered from the sidelines.

He was on the twenty-fourth mile, sweating but feeling good despite four hours of running, when a stabbing pain struck his chest. His eyes widened at the odd sensation. He had not felt something like this since September 11, 2001. Still, twelve years was not long enough to forget agony like this.

"Oh no," he whispered, fearing for his country and the people.

Another runner paused and held his shoulders. "Hey man, you okay?"

"Y-yeah, I'm…"

Thirteen seconds later, a second pain struck even harder. America fell to his knees as it felt like his heart had ruptured.

The worried runner knelt down beside him. "Whoa, dude, easy. Hey," he shouted to the spectators, "get the Red Cross workers here. We've got someone with chest pain."

"No! I'm fine, it's … it's not me." America had no clue how to explain this to an ordinary person. He hissed through the pain. "Oh God, what happened?"

Far up ahead, he heard screams. America suddenly ignored the ache and leaped to his feet.

"What the hell just happened?" he shrieked.

People were running away, but America bolted forward. Despite the long marathon run, he felt no fatigue as adrenaline raced through his body and worry spurred him on. How often had Germany admired him saying, "You, America, are strongest when you feel hurt"? He felt the pain now, and he ran with tears in his eyes and uncanny power in his legs.

It was two more miles to the finish line, but America no longer cared about medals or races. He covered the distance in what was surely a record for him, although it felt like running in a nightmare. He stumbled upon chaos, debris, people being carried away with missing limbs, emergency crews rolling children away in wheelchairs, and a man desperately holding the artery of a victim who had his leg blasted off.

He stepped forward slowly, seeing giant nails all around the ground and large ball bearings littering the place. Who with a human heart would do such a thing? America could never understand this sort of hatred. It shocked and angered him.

Amidst the chaos, he saw a bleeding boy standing in the middle of the street, overlooked as emergency teams tended more critical injuries. America knelt down, yanked off his jogging shirt, and tied the cloth around the wound to the boy's leg.

"Where's your mommy?" he asked gently.

The little boy sniffled. "Dunno. They … they took her away. She was all red."

America swallowed down a lurch in his stomach. There were many people who needed help, but he was only one person. Emergency response crews had swarmed the place. He had confidence in them. It wasn't like he was a doctor, anyway. He would at least help this lost boy.

"Don't be scared, little dude," he smiled in an affable manner. "We are Americans. We're all heroes, so we don't have to be afraid."

"Heroes?" the boy asked. "Like Captain America?"

"Totally! Like Captain America." He lifted the small child into his arms. "Let's go find a doctor for your leg, then we'll find your mom, okay?"

The boy wiped away his snot and nodded. America walked over blasted concrete and the blood of 285 victims. He crossed the finish line that day, but he did not look at the clock to see what his record time was. His face was grim as he carried the boy away from the devastation, and there was a hard gleam in his sky blue eyes. Someone would pay for this!

No one hurt America and got away with it.

April 17, 2013

…

America stayed in his home, feeling uncharacteristically angry. He just wished he knew who to aim these emotions toward. He was the hero, so having an enemy made things easier. When there was no enemy, his emotions got all confused. He hoped the bastards who did this got caught alive. Having them killed fulfilled nothing but vengeance. He wanted justice!

He sat on his couch, flipping from channel to channel. All the news stations were yakking about Boston. Most were repeats, showing the pictures of the suspects and images of the blast. America did not need to look at those grim images. He had been there. He had seen it.

He decided to wait a few minutes until American Idol came on, and he rose to grab another Diet Coke from the fridge. He had just opened the can with a hiss of carbonation when there was a knock at the door. America set the soda down on a TV Guide and went to the entryway. Peeking through the spyhole, he saw a distorted view of bushy brows. He swung open the door in surprise.

"England! I didn't know you were coming. You should have called me. I would have cleaned up the place."

"Yes, well, you know I hate all your crazed technology."

"Dude, I gave you a Smartphone for Christmas!"

"Yes, it checks email, it tells me driving instructions, plays music and games, it even takes pictures and video, but I can't figure out how to get the bloody thing to make a damned phone call." The Brit stormed in petulantly. "Stupid American wankers and your damned Japanese technology. I swear, you two will be the death of me!"

"Umm, come on in," America said, smirking as he shut the door.

"Are you eating well?" England snapped. "Have you even been out of the house in two days?"

"Huh?" he asked, following as the blond marched in with a basket in his hand.

"It's just like you! Two little bombs go off and you think the big-bad-wolf terrorists are blowing on your straw house."

"Dude, this house is made out of Detroit steel and the newest tech advances in architectural glass straight out of California. It ain't straw."

England ignored him. "You probably went and bought another semi-automatic rifle, and now you're cowering at home, waiting for the bad guys to come after you. Bloody git! What have I always told you?"

He thought about it. "America, you're an idiot?"

"Besides that!"

"Stop spelling color wrong?"

"No! Although you do spell colour wrong."

"Uhhh … Keep a stiff upper lip?"

"Precisely!" England snapped. He sighed and hung his head. "Look, I sympathize. What happened was a tragedy. The whole world mourns for your losses. We all hate that humans can do this kind of thing to one another. However, you are a country, America! Rebellions, shootings, bombings, acts of terror both foreign and domestic: do you think that not every single blasted one of us has gone through the same? You're young, so learn this: part of being a country is being hated. It may harden you, but it helps you to grow. These are growing pains, America. They've been testing you for years, seeing your resolve, trying to push you into a corner, hoping you'll snap. You must keep calm, and carry on."

"That's so like you," America chuckled. Then he eyed the basket. "So, what'd you bring me, huh?" he asked like a child at Christmas.

England set the basket down. "Crumpets."

"Oh, gross!"

"As well as some Earl Grey tea, which is far more healthy for you than that sickeningly sweet swill you guzzle."

"What's unhealthy is your—" America's words cut out as a pain shot through his head. He grabbed his forehead and stumbled a little.

England saw the distinct look of agony. "America!"

"What the…?" Suddenly, his glasses cracked. He pulled them off and looked at them in horror. "Texas," he breathed in fear. "England, I gotta go. Something's wrong with Texas. Did you bring your car? No never mind that. My Mustang is faster. Dammit, but it'll take forever to drive to Texas. Maybe I can get a jet."

"Oh, for the love of…" England grabbed the Yank by the arm and pulled him over to the fireplace. "This is the fastest route." He and America stood in the middle of the empty fireplace. "Where exactly do you feel the disturbance?"

"City of West, in Texas. I can..sense it. Hot. Bad smells. Or maybe that's your cooking."

"Shut the hell up!" England snapped. "Fine then. West, Texas."

They vanished, America felt like he was on a roller coaster, and suddenly they were in a small cabin, standing in a sooty fireplace.

"That … was … cool!" America shouted. "Where did you learn that?"

"A charming little children's writer taught me," England smiled smugly. "So, is this the place?"

They walked out of the abandoned cabin and looked out into the Texan sky. England gaped as he saw just how blue it was.

"I don't visit Texas that often," he breathed in astonishment. "It's … huge."

"Sure is!" America said proudly. "Looks like the right place. I was around here in 1993. Spent fifty days in this area. Waco! It's an event I don't like to remember." He pulled off his glasses again and looked at the small crack. "I have a feeling I'm not going to like this either."

"America, look. Smoke."

They walked forward until they could see the flames up ahead. Something was burning.

"But that's odd," England said softly. "For you to sense trouble, it's usually something major. For just a small fire—"

Before he could say more, an explosion brought both of them to their knees. America fell and immediately hugged England protectively as the blast rumbled the ground and swooped over them, blowing both men's blond hair into disarray. When the initial wave was over, America looked back at a massive smoky fireball curling into the sky, mushrooming upward. A chill shivered through his veins. He realized his glasses had fractured into tiny pieces from the shockwave alone.

England was hitting America's arm, and he wondered what was wrong with the Brit. If England was hurt, he would shout. Then hands grabbed America's shirt and shook it. The Yank looked down in confusion.

"What is it?" He said the words, but he heard nothing. His hand went to his mouth in surprise. "My voice!" Again, America could feel the words vibrating his throat, but he heard nothing.

England's mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. Belatedly, America realized he should be hearing rumbling from the blast, or screams, or sirens, or even the wind. Nothing! His ears were deaf.

"England!" he shouted, as if that might help. "England, I can't hear."

The smaller man grabbed his face and spoke slowly so America could read his lips.

"We … need … to … get … out … of … here."

"No!" he shouted, pulling away. "I don't leave my States when they're in trouble. Be it New York, Boston, or a tiny town like West, I'm staying, and I'm helping."

The words England shouted were silent to him, but he caught a few bits. "Stupid" and "bloody git" were repeated a few times. America just smiled and patted the smaller man's head, which angered England.

"Go home," he said, keeping the order simple so even a person who lost his hearing from an explosion could understand it.

"No!" came the reply, silent yet obviously screamed. "We work together."

America felt deep relief. Sometimes, he felt so separated from the world, having both the Pacific and Atlantic separating him from all the countries in Europe, Asia, and Africa. Sure, he got to hang around Canada and Mexico, but they were quiet people, easily intimidated by America's rambunctiousness. It was lonely being "across the Pond," as England put it. However, there were moments when the world seemed so small. Mankind easily connected their hearts when they saw a need to assist one another.

America was a proud man. He loved to help others, but he hated to admit he needed help.

Today—this whole week—he needed something. He had not figured out what. Justice, he thought. Someone to blame. However, this explosion was an accident, just a fertilizer plant that caught fire, causing such a massive and fatal blast, destroying everything around it. An accident. No one to hate or to blame.

America didn't need food or military assistance. Right then, he needed to cry. His head fell down onto England's shoulder. Although momentarily shocked, the Brit wrapped his arms around the taller man. Knowing America could not hear, the elder country said words he could never say in real life.

"I will always comfort you, America. You got so big, and I shrank. You once looked up to me, and now I admire you. But I know the pain of feeling bombs go off on my soil, the agony at the screams of the victims, and the hearts of the people changing, growing callused, affecting us as well. I know it too damn well! So cry, let it out, and grow stronger. I won't tell anyone."

"You better not," America chuckled, speaking into the Brit's shoulder, although England could not hear. America decided not to tell him that his hearing was already coming back. He squeezed England tighter and let himself be comforted for once.

April 19, 2013

…

"They caught him."

America watched the TV with England as the news cheered at the capture of the terrorist. Bostonians, who had been ordered to stay in their homes, now filled the Massachusetts streets, partying along with the police officers who had kept everyone safe through these four days of uncertainty and worry.

Although he felt he should celebrate, America still felt the heavy loss. People were killed trying to arrest the terrorists. Two men, who should have hated America alone, took out that anger on innocent people. The young country could hardly help but feel guilty.

"I wish they would just target me," America muttered. "I'm strong. I'd take their beatings. But to target innocent civilians, little kids, people who did nothing wrong … I don't think I'll ever understand that logic. I don't think I'd want to."

England squeezed America around the shoulders. Yes, he was a strong country who would withstand beatings. It was emotions that were America's weakness. These terrorists did not understand the young nation the way England did. Their goal was to strike fear into America's heart, but this rambunctiously young country was too proud, maybe even too naïve, to feel terror. He felt only rage, and sometimes pity that people like this had to hate him just because he upheld what America felt was freedom and justice.

"It's going to be okay, America," England whispered consolingly.

"I know," the Yank sighed tiredly. "It's just been a helluva week. Every time I go through this, I feel older. I don't like feeling old. It sucks!"

Sensing the stress in the younger country, England squeezed those muscular shoulders, as broad as America itself, spanning from sea to shining sea. He was big, he was insanely strong, a bit stupid and illogical at times, youthful and exuberant to the point of annoying the older countries, but America made up for his ignorance with hidden fortitude that surpassed just about everyone else. England hated to praise him and usually refused to stoke the git's ego, but this week … this week, America needed to be reminded of his strengths.

"You're strong," the Brit cajoled. "You'll recover. And your people are strong, too."

"Yeah," America chuckled proudly. He took off his glasses. Already, they were mending, Texas was healing, and the ache in his heart for the city of Boston was now filled with the joys of its citizens. "The sun rises in Boston, shines brightest over Texas, and sets in Hawaii to the sway of palm trees. We can make it through the dark times, because we know the sun will rise again."

"That's … oddly poetic," England frowned in confusion. "Absolutely uncharacteristic of you."

"I've been taking classes in how to steer my emotions into art. You should see my paintings and statues."

"Oh bloody hell, don't tell me you've been taking art lessons from that damned Italian idiot!"

America laughed lightly and put the mending glasses back on his face. "Don't look so grim, England. I'm gonna be just fine. After all, we are Americans!"

The End