I was bored and skimming headcannons and I liked this one, even if I didn't support the ship it came with. So I'll just exclude the ship [RussAme, to satisfy your curiosity dear sirs] and make my own story. Headcannons make good topics to write about sometimes.

Credit goes to whoever made the headcannon. I don't know. Here's to the dribble drably, and review! :D

America has always loved the sky.

Vast and infinite and beautiful and unattainable. Blue. And not just plain old blue, but cerulean, turquoise, shifting and paler in patches with big fluffy clouds to lay in, or the spectacular displays of sunsets, bleeding fire into the air around them.

He hates storms, the perfect blue being choked and clogged with clouds, and the rain in the wind on leaves sounded like far-off gunfire, and the crack of thunder sounds like the booming ring of artillery.

But blue is his favorite.

He remembered, oh how he remembered, being young and carefree and dancing in the grass like a total maniac, under the sky that was bluer than even his own eyes, and smiling up into a face that was dark as if stained by the shadows she hid in. She had eyes that were his, that just shaded so carefully into lavender.

When he was young, he'd looked up to all the empire nations for being tall. Taller, higher, reach the sky, his goal. He'd attempted to befriend Russia once, a small child approaching the tall nation and tugging his jacket while Russia sat and worked at his desk. In utter surprise, Russia looked down at the knee-high nation that stared at him with awe in his eyes, and asked "What are you doing here, little thing? Have you come to become one with me?"

America stared at the tall nation's eyes. They were purple. Purple was okay, but they weren't blue, like the afternoon sky. "How tall are you?" asked the small blond, and in response Russia stood, towering over the nation, casting a shadow against the moon and the sky, a color like velvet with a sprinkling of diamonds. America's jaw dropped. "You're a giant!"

Russia laughed in surprise. Here he was, expecting to be lonely but for General Winter, and yet this small child penetrated the defenses he'd set up to keep Bela out when she was on a rampage and appeared here, and was already cheering him up from the depressing cloud of work he had. The next question America had startled him, though.

"Can I sit on your shoulders?"

Russia blinked, taken aback. "Why?"

America turned his baby blues on the Russian. "So I can gather all the stars."

He couldn't say no to that, and America was hoisted high in the air, where Russia held onto his feet and America was surrounded by stars. It was the time of his life. Snow falling gently, the moonlight casting it in silver, and the nighttime sky like a dance around him.

He'd flown again once more, a few years later. He'd sat on England's shoulders for the fun of it and commanded the other nation to gallop around. When he was sure the other nation wasn't holding tight he'd pushed to his feet and sprang up high, the sky coming into a crystal focus in front of him, and for a moment he was suspended in the air with the sky wrapped all around him and he swam in warmth, a Daedalus without his fallen Icarus to burden him.

And then he landed with his wrist gone the wrong way and England ran over to fuss, and while the pain was excruciating, he didn't cry, for the sky was smiling at her little American eaglet and he smiled along with her, the unshed tears behind his eyes yearning for flight.

Fast forwards to past the Revolutionary War. Apollo 11 bursts towards the sky, fire and smoke farting from the engines and leaving a trail across the pristine periwinkle blue. No clouds hinder its process, and America watches with his joyful heart in his mouth, the grainy flicks of the television not obscuring the rise up towards his perfect blue. He'd wanted to go, but the president had told him No, you're too important to this land, these people. If something goes wrong, than we are doomed.He loved his people, and so he acquiesced. But oh how his heart yearned to be in the cramped cabin, dash bedecked with buttons and gauges, and the millions of shades of blue fading darker and darker and...

When Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong and the rest of them landed on the dusty surface, America leapt up, overturning the clunky television, and cheered so loud that England told him to quiet himself with less than his usual brusqueness, and across the world, Russia thought of a way to upstage him, but he smiled for the nation's victory, and a bit for the memory of a child screeching with laughter as the stars whirled around him. Everyone enjoyed the spectacle, as the light faded in the sky.