Um…yeah. Guess who's still alive and kicking? Me, that's who!

This is the first fanfiction I've posted in a long time, isn't it? Well, I had to get around to posting Hetalia eventually. And this is not the only one; that is, if I ever get around to finishing that USUK (yep. I'm a fangirl) oneshot I've been sitting on for even longer than this one.

I actually started writing this after I saw Lincoln and it's just been sitting in my fanfiction folder for months. As usual, these days. *sigh* Someday I'll get back on track with all these things.

"T-they're fighting now, a-aren't they?"

"I'm afraid so, my boy. The troops were ordered to move out a few days ago. I assume you're feeling it?"

"Yeah…bad." Lincoln could help but place a hand of sympathy on the boy's shoulder, rubbing it gently. America was hunched over on a desk, blond hair in an unusual level of disarray (Nantucket was hardly differentiable from the rest of his tousled mess) and blue eyes as dull and visibly baggy as his boss', even in the pale, flickering candlelight solely illuminating his bedroom. He took clipped breaths as he clung to his sides, letting out a low groan before a wince of pain.

"Tell me, America. Does this happen in every war?" Lincoln removed his hat and sat beside him with a sigh, still rubbing his shoulders in an attempt to sooth the aches—they both knew it was in vain, but when Abe tried to remove his hand, he could see the look of desperation cross America's face, practically childlike. Abe was a father. He knew how much mere presence can mean to someone so young, even if said youth was actually centuries old rather than the nineteen-year-old he appeared to be. Thus, his hand stayed.

"A little bit, when major damage is done…ugh…" America bit his lip. There was thin line of tears welling in his eyes despite his obvious efforts to hide them. "But it's never been this bad. It even gets bad when I'm out there fighting myself…" his voice trailed off and his eyes glazed over, as if he had more to say but didn't want to exert the energy. Lincoln decided not to press him, and there was silence for a moment, the only movement being the president's hand on the boy's back moving back and forth slowly and carefully. Young America finally let a tear fall, just one, his allotted share for that moment. Finally, he coughed lightly, just once, and spoke.

"It's not even that it just hurts…people have asked if it feels like I'm being torn in two, which I guess would make sense, but it's not that. It's like…it's like…have you ever had a stomach ache that feels like a Goddamn storm in there? Turning and turning and eating away at you? And my head's whirling too, 'cause I don't just feel the violence, I feel the emotions of the people. I haven't felt this way since the Revolution. There were a lot of people living here who were still loyal to Britain. Sometimes I thought of just quitting and telling him I was done fighting and ask for everything to go back to normal, and then the thought would disappear, and I just wanted to fight him again. It was confusing and stressful and…and the same thing is happening now. Even the bastards who are seceding are still a part of me. A huge part of me."

"Of course they are." Abraham took his hand away momentarily to remove his jacket, bent back cracking, and he decided that he may be here for a while; this was going to be a tough night for America, and surely Mary wouldn't mind him spending time to comfort a boy in pain. "I wish nothing more than for this country to stay as one."

America's breathing seemed to stop for a moment. His bright blue eyes wavered as he shifted them to meet Lincoln's and he swallowed slowly. Then, just slightly above his breath, he whispered, "I just want to know what will happen to me if we do separate."

Lincoln's warm hand paused at his shoulder. He wished he had an answer, but he didn't, and he was quite sure America knew that.

They both knew of nations and empires that separated into two: Rome and Byzantium, for instance. But there's no telling what would happen to America. No one has seen a Confederate States running around, thank goodness, and Lincoln very much intended it to stay that way. But if there came a day when a new young nation was spotted on the battlefield, it was very possible that the war would be over—or, at least, that many would see it to be.

"Don't worry my boy, that will never happen. I won't let it."

"There's talk…UGH!" America retched forward, and Abe steadied his shoulders to stop him from falling off the desk, "of giving them up. Some say…" America's voice shuddered again before stopping. The subsequent pregnant pause had nothing to do with pain, not physical pain anyway. America looked tentatively at him, eyes wide and mouth trembling, clearly grasping for reassurance. Still, he said no more.

"Say what, my boy?" Lincoln looked at him directly, keeping his own weary face stone serious. He half knew what America was going to say, and even he just couldn't stand it. America glanced down, but Lincoln kept his gaze steady.

"Some say it's for the best."

"It's not," Lincoln said, slowly and deliberately, his tone dark, "It's not, and don't you let anyone tell you that."

For the first time that night, America cracked a smile.

Only for his face to one again contort into agony.

"Shitshitshitgoddamnhellfu—"

"Say boy, have I ever told you the story—"

"helldamndamnshit—"

"that I heard once about a man you knew—"

"SONOFABITCH!"

"the Marquis de Lafayette. I'm sure you remember him."

America collapsed in defeat, chest heaving and eyes slowly rolling back to meet the president's. A shaking hand ran limply through his now sweaty hair and then supported his weight as he slumped.

"Yeah. He was great. What about him?"

Lincoln sat back in his chair with his fingers crossed and shoulders relaxed, looking just past the boy with him in something of a distant gaze. As per usual.

"Well, I'm sure you remember his…distinct desire for glory, even for one so young. And he was, wasn't he?"

"Yeah…" America rubbed his stomach thoughtlessly and without any pain in his face, and Abraham contained his smile at the sight. "When he first came over he was just nineteen, which is how old I'm supposed to be. We got along great. Him, Hamilton, Laurens, and I…we were a good team."

"Amazing, I'd expect." The President cleared his throat and continued. "Anyway, when he was young and in a school for the children of French nobles, one of the teachers described the perfect horse; that is, one that would obey his master at the mere sight of a whip. Lafayette immediately exclaimed that, no, a perfect horse would be one smart enough to throw its rider at the first sight of a whip! His teacher was so amused by the remark that he himself didn't even get his own expected beating."

America did laugh this time—muted and stiff as if the very act caused pain, but a laugh it was. "Yeah, t-that sure sounds like him." Suddenly, however, his face went sullen, "God, I miss those days. The former c-colonies weren't banging down each other's d-doors to cooperate, but at least everyone wanted to…" he grimaced again, "t-to be part of me."

Abraham frowned. That was not the effect he was going for with the story—and those rarely failed! America noticed his expression and gave a sympathetic one of his own, reaching out to clumsily thump his shoulder, much to Abe's calm amusement.

"Oh, don't be disappointed, chief. I-I can't really help being all sullen these days. It's hard to feel awesome…when half of your own people don't think you are."

Somewhere, deep down in his core, in a place Lincoln tries with all his might to rarely think about and yet it always manages to eat away at him, the boy's words struck a chord. Closing his eyes, he dug his long fingers into his wiry hair. They rubbed deep into his scalp, massaging the head that always seemed to hurt these days (he hoped it was because of stress caused by the slow and painful process of passing the anti-slavery amendment and not something more serious and permanent—if he somehow managed to pick up Mary's migraines, well, God help his sons) before running over his cragged face and feeling every hard crease and sag. Everyone around the White House noticed the exhaustion recently. He saw their glances of concern or disappointment from across ballrooms and council meetings; thank the Lord the rest of the country couldn't see him at these moments as well.

He almost chuckled at the thought. Imagine, having to be president managing major conflicts and stresses and having to keep up an appealing appearance at all times. A president could never do their job with all of America watching that closely; he was almost certain anyone who tried would drop dead or go insane or both.

"I understand, son. Trust me, I—"

"I think you're awesome."

At the same time, both America and his president blinked in surprise. They looked towards the doorway to see a darkened figure standing there, hands wringing expectantly. There was no light in the hallway and the candle's shine did not reach that far, but there was no question who it was; the top of his head was just over half the height of the doorframe.

"Tad, this is far too late for you to be up."

"Aw, papa, I heard America groaning and I couldn't just go to sleep without coming to see him."

Though still clearly more restrained than usual, America face lit with a spark and his body straightened. "Aw, thanks Tad!" He held out his arms and beaconed with his hands. "Where's my favorite first child under 15?"

"America," Tad scoffed (still smiling, of course), "I'm the only first child under 15 and you know it." He hopped up on America's knee, one of his preferred places to sit. Though the country did his best to hide his wince, and Tad didn't seem to notice, Abraham decided it best he reached forward and coax his ball of energy off America's leg and onto his own. Tad gave him a brief look of confusion but complied.

"That's just something I say so ol' Robby doesn't get jealous," America pretended to whisper, winking at the boy and nudging him in the shoulder. Tad shared his mischievous chuckle.

Tad and America were the bane of almost every White House official's existence. Every missing map, looted office, and harebrained scheme could be traced back to those two; Tad and Willie (God keep his soul, Lincoln thinks, but keeps the memory restrained for the time—no need for America to see any tears) were bad, but their country friend was the flame that lit the gunpowder. It was America that gave Tad the idea of strapping his pet goat to a cart and riding through the halls. It was something he apparently did as a colony, which had, in his words, "Britain chasing after me like riled up goose with his feathers plucked, and shouting at me so loud he kinda sounded like one too." Then, with a moment's thought, he had added, "Then again, I guess that's what he usually sounds like."

"That's funny," America mumbled out of the blue, "The pain's gone down."

"Perhaps the fighting has commenced for the time being," Lincoln offered, stroking his son's hair as the child yawned and relaxed into his long chest. America gave his largest smile of the night at the sight of Tad's eyes fluttering and failing to stay open.

"You know, little buddy, I think it's time for you to get to bed. I'm feeling better now; thanks for your help."

"N-no…" Tad naturally groaned, "I want to stay up…"

"America needs his sleep, Tad." His father lifted him and let his head droop on his shoulder after the child's protests quieted. By the time Lincoln had reached the doorway, he was already softly snoring.

Abe turned back to his country one last time.

"You take care, son," he said. America nodded, limbs almost dropping in fatigue himself.

"I'm going to bed. It's been a long, long couple of days."

With the two pairs of sunken eyes meeting again, he and his president shared another moment of understanding. This war, the bloodiest, most destructive, most painful war America had ever seen dragged on seemingly relentlessly. It was not just the country himself who would be torn to pieces if it didn't end the way they wanted, the way they had fought for for four years now—the weight of it all hung on both of their shoulders equally. And both of them knew there would be many more long, sleepless nights, aching limbs, and stinging tears before it was all over. If it will ever be over," America thought. It was a silly thought, he knew. All wars end eventually. Hell, he'd been through much longer than this. But still, this one felt like an eternity, and he knew, partially from what Britain had taught him and partially from his own observation, that wars within oneself have repercussions that take centuries to go away (if they ever do). He wasn't even sure about the Amendment Lincoln wanted to pass; whether he thought it was good or bad swung back and forth like a pendulum, its cause always giving him unease but still always whispering all its little reasons to stay, as it had since the day he declared independence These days, though, the pendulum seemed to rest longer and longer on the side of "it has to go."

Its frightening, sometimes, how Abraham seems to be able to tell what America was thinking about just by looking at him. He opened his mouth as if to address it, but closed it tight again, shaking his head lightly in dismissal. Its a topic much discussed these days, America figures, and at this point there is little to say that hasn't been already. "I think I'm going to bed too. Mary must be fretting like mad by now." And with that, Lincoln gave a final nod in his direction and shut the door behind him with a gentle creak and thump.

The candle flickered once more before being snuffed out.

As much as it pains the history nerd in me, I left out Tad Lincoln's speech impediment, partially because the movie did and partially because I couldn't find a straight description on what his lisp actually sounded like, at least not straight enough for me to comfortable writing it. Thanks for reading guys, and I hope you enjoyed!