hello friends! welcome to me first hetalia story har har har

it's just a one-shot I thought up when I was thinking about

1) how hetalia could be more emotional sometimes

2) how obsessed I am with usxuk

FLUFF

ATTENTION TO ALL READERS PLEASE READ THIS DISCLAIMER

this is a one-shot...meaning...

DO NOT

I REPEAT

DO NOT

FOLLOW THIS STORY

FAVORITE IT. FOLLOW ME. REVIEW. DO ANYTHING BUT FOLLOW.

BECAUSE IT IS COMPLETE.

THERE IS NOTHING LEFT FOR THIS STORY.

SO DON'T FOLLOW IT.

YOU WILL BE DISAPPOINTED AND I WILL GET NOTIFICATIONS THAT DON'T MAKE SENSE.

PLEASE.

some background for people who don't know the history I based this on:

in the 1920s, after world war 1, America went through a decade of fun and happy times and prospering economy and stuff, and was so successful that it was able to help the countries in Europe (who were not so lucky). Those countries, especially Germany, were suffering a lot after the war, and America was loaning everybody (mostly Germany) money and helping them rebuild and everyone was like YEAH AMERICA and America was like YEAH AMERICA.

Then, in 1929, the stock market crashed and very sad times began. For essentially an entire decade, America went through the worst economic depression it has ever seen. There was famine and nobody had money and the economy was just barely functioning. And, since America was essentially supporting the entire Western world at that point, its depression led to the depression of a bunch of other countries. England, France, and Germany included. Even Canada and Mexico and other places were affected because America was just so essential to the infrastructure of the world's economy.

So, essentially, America went down and the whole world went with it.

I mean, just imagine what would happen to the world if Alfred was like, not functioning anymore.

That's the Great Depression.

And I wrote a usxuk one-shot about it.

ENJOY

love forever

plz review

xoxo

The Great Depression

I decided, then and there, that the only option would be to go visit him. He wasn't answering letters, wasn't answering calls or telegrams, wasn't coming to any meetings...I hadn't heard his voice or seen his face in weeks, which was too unusual. It was funny, thinking back on it. Whenever he was around I deliberately searched out reasons to be irritated by him. I convinced myself that I was annoyed merely by his breath. His loud voice and his obnoxious laugh and his larger-than-life attitude. But now that he had been gone for so long, I was starting to realize that perhaps it didn't irritate me as much as I thought—or perhaps it did, but that very irritation had become a source of comfort for me. There hadn't been anybody screaming in my ear for weeks, nobody telling me what to do or where to go fully expecting that I would obey, nobody terrifying me without actually being terrifying.

So, this feeling of emptiness growing within me, I called Francois and told him I wouldn't be making it to the meeting.

"Comment? You're not coming?"

"No, I'm sorry, but I won't be making it this time around. Please convey my apologies to the others."

"Pourquoi, mon cheri?"

"I have...a previous engagement."

"Mais, now is not a good time," Francois sighed into the phone. "Everybody is in quite ze pickle, you know. We do not know what to do wiss ourselves. Wissout Alf—"

"Yes, I understand perfectly well the 'pickle' in which we find ourselves."

"Our economies, our relationships...everysing is terrible. We cannot 'ave you leave, mon cheri. Especially not now."

"We haven't been getting anything done at the meetings anyway, and you all know that as well as I do. I'm going to actually treat the root of the problems rather than the symptoms."

"Do I understand correctly? Are you going to see—?"

"Yes. You hold down the fort while I'm gone, will you?"

"Mais, bien sur. Bon chance, Artie, mon ami."

"How many times have I asked you to refrain from calling me that?"

"Please forgive me," Francois laughed on the other end. "I cannot pronounce your true name, so Artie it is."

"Very well. Give the others my regards, old chap." I hung up, a newfound sense of responsibility gnawing on my stomach. Speaking with Francois had reminded me of the dire circumstances of the world recently. Nobody had quite realized how dependent we were on him until he up and disappeared, and we were all left in the wake of his country's disaster.

But the truth was, I hadn't even been thinking about that when I'd decided to visit him, which struck me as rather hilarious. Of course, I could never admit that to anybody. Least of all Francois. I was starting to surprise even myself with my unconscious reasoning. I was smirking, entertained by my very own idiosyncrasies, as I straightened my tie, put on my jacket, and grabbed my hat. Out of habit, I checked my mail on my way out, expecting to see a letter with my name written in giant bold letters and a stamp with a bald eagle on it. But there was nothing of the sort. A new tone of somberness washed over me. I retrieved my walking stick and left the manor, headed straight for the station.

I knocked on the door without even an inkling of hesitation. Our relationship had long since passed the point of awkward intrusions and questionable interactions. I couldn't even count in my head the number of times he had barged into my manor, demanding that I watch a movie with him or make him Earl Grey or simply to bug me because he was bored (where he found the time to be bored is an enigma to me). So when I knocked on the door of his house, a ranch house that was very much a different style than my manor, I did so without inhibitions.

I waited for about a minute in silence. His house was located in a suburb just outside of a large city, so the lawns were green and the sky was blue and I could hear the sounds of nature. When I looked up, I even saw a falcon soaring over its kingdom. And yet, there was something barren about it all. There was an ambience of sadness and loneliness that I hadn't felt the last time I was here. There was nobody walking through the streets. The stores were practically empty, and the cafés I had so often come to with him were deserted. Everything was very solemn, and I didn't like it. My own country was beginning to slip into a similar state, but it was nothing like this. Nothing like this sadness, this terrible regression.

I knocked again when he didn't answer, even harder this time. I used the head of my walking stick. The door trembled from the force. Still, there was silence. I pressed my ear against the door with a deep breath, frustration rising within me. From within, I could hear muffled, distant sounds, nothing that I could recognize. But it was very clear to me that he was home, and that he had heard me, and he was defiantly ignoring me.

"Alfred! Open the door," I called with another knock. "It's only me."

"Go away, 'Only me.'"

"Oh, stop it with your unnecessary japes. I've come all this way, so at least let me in."

He didn't say anything then, but he didn't open the door, either. I knew that knocking anymore would have been pointless, but I was nearly to the point of having an aneurism. I stood as straight as I could and drew in an inflating breath, exhaling through my nose. Even the air was dry. I stomped my walking stick on the ground and gathered my wits. Being angry with him was not the solution. I, after all, had no idea what the problem was. Why he had suddenly holed himself up in his home and let his country go to ruin (and therefore putting the rest of us on the same path). But it was rather unlike him. I cleared my throat to dispel the frustration from it, and lowered my voice.

"Alfred, I only want to talk. Please open this door," I said. "I promise, I'm not here to punish you or lecture you. But everybody is worried about you."

I decided to speak on everybody's behalf, since I didn't think it would do much to tell him that I was worried about him.

The response was, again, silence. But I felt a slight change in the atmosphere. A resignation, a melancholy acceptance, and I put my gloved hand on the doorknob. When I turned it, I found the door unlocked, and I let myself in.

"You really should lock this door, lest a burglar make his way inside..." I began, but my voice trailed off as I found myself encased in the dark, cold place that had become Alfred's home.

Not a single light was on. And there was a chill that ran across every inch of my body, even though I was wearing a three-piece suit and a jacket. I felt the cold reach my very core, dig deep into me and settle into my heart until I felt every limb weighed down by something. I shivered. The darkness and the cold set me completely on edge. The blinds on all the windows were shut and the black light bulbs were swinging eerily from the ceiling. I flinched when the door clicked shut behind me. When I breathed in through my nostrils, the air was stale and dank. It was a good thing that I knew this house well; otherwise I would have been completely lost in the absolute darkness.

"Good God, Alfred," I murmured, more to myself than to him. Even though it was cold, I took off my jacket and my hat, and also the jacket of my suit. I stepped out of my shoes and left them (loathe as I was to do so) in a pile near the door. The sound I had heard on behind the door was much more clear now. I followed it, through the halls of the house. Past the dirty kitchen, the distraught living room, the smelly bathroom. I found myself in the door of his bedroom. It took a while for my eyes to adjust. I saw his bed, the sheets strewn all over and stained. I also saw the television set, and from it lights and voices flew through the room.

And sitting on the floor, wrapped in a blanket and surrounded by unfinished snacks, was Alfred himself. The only reason I could see him was because of the light from the television.

"Oh, Alfred." I groped for the light switch and, finally, the room became illuminated. Alfred cringed, curled into himself more, covered his head with the blanket and closed his eyes. "What are you doing?"

I wasn't even expecting a response at that point. I walked further into the room and peered at the screen. I saw a very well dressed man, with a strangely groomed mustache and a bewitching smile. Everything was in black and white. Alfred coughed, but didn't turn his eyes away from the television. Though I'm not sure how he could see anything, as his glasses were lying broken on the stained carpet beside him.

"Alfred, you look miserable," I sighed. He wouldn't look up at me, even as I said his name. He looked so exhausted, so tired, and yet wide-awake. There were bags under his eyes, his hair was oily and had fallen flat around his gaunt cheeks. Alfred very desperately needed a cup of tea and a nap—that much was clear. He just coughed again and turned away from me. His concern for everything had just slipped away, and there was not even a flicker of light in his eyes. Usually the light was so bright I could see nothing else.

Saying much else wouldn't have been of any use to me. I realized quickly that I needed to take action. Letting the program on the television run its course, I crouched on my heels and began to pick up the mess. Half-eaten twinkies, cookie crumbs, open bags of three different types of chips, a pizza box, a carton of ice cream that had long since melted, cigarette butts, a disembodied ash tray. It was a shock to me that ants had not infested his home and eaten him alive. I gathered everything as best as I could, maneuvering around Alfred as he lay emotionless on his side, staring at the screen. The darkness was no longer agreeing with me, so as I made my way to the kitchen, I flicked on the lights with my elbows. The entire house was in as much disarray as his room was. I managed to find a trash bag and put everything in it, tie it up, and haul it to the giant trashcan out back. When that was finished, I returned to his room.

"You look as if you need a proper meal," I said. I made my voice as cheery as I possibly could, well aware of the fact that I would need to have enough energy for the both of us (and then some). "Why don't I fix you something? What would you like?"

I just barely saw him shrug. But that in itself was a good sign.

"I know I'm not a very good cook, but I can make do with whatever you have in your kitchen. I know! I could make you a sandwich. That's easy enough, right? And some warm milk. That will do the trick, now, won't it?"

For the first time since I arrived, Alfred looked at me. There was such defeat in his eyes that it took me aback. I'd only seen him like that a handful of times, and each had been caused by war or destruction. I couldn't think of anything recent to have caused this overwhelming despair to overcome him. In fact, only a little while ago, he had been drinking and partying and dancing every night. Even though the rest of us were still recovering from the war.

I smiled at him, hiding behind my eyes the deep concern I felt. I couldn't let him see that, not when he was already so broken.

"You just stay right there. I'll be back before you can say 'fish and chips.'"

As I turned and walked out, the voice of the man on the television following close behind, I could sense his eyes on my back. It was comforting somehow. To know that he knew I was there. In the kitchen, it took me much longer than I'd wanted to make him the food. But I did the best I could, acknowledging my incompetence in the kitchen. He had the bread and some peanut butter and jelly, and I knew he was fond of the stuff, so I made him something with that. A sandwich, which I then sliced up into tiny pieces. Then I heated up some milk, put a few drops of honey into it, and took it all on a tray to his room. When I got back, he was sitting up again, his back slouched.

"I wasn't sure what your favorite flavor of jam is, so I used grape. I hope that's all right with you." I crouched down beside him and held out the tray. I watched the muscles in his face, to sense even the slightest change, but could see none. Even as he grabbed the tray and held it in his lap, let the blanket fall from his head down to his shoulders, his expression didn't change. The man on the screen was with a woman now. Her hair was curly and her lips were glossy.

"What is it you're watching?" I asked. "Some American film? Cowboys and guns and the like?"

He shrugged again. But he grabbed a piece of the sandwich and placed it on his dry tongue, and a wave of relief crashed into me. I sat down next to him. He chewed slowly. Alfred was the most ravenous eater I knew, with the unbelievable ability to eat thirty hot dogs in ten minutes, but he could hardly swallow a piece of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich now. It was jarring. And then, without warning, he spoke.

"Do you think Clark Gable likes peanut butter and jelly?" he mumbled. His voice was hoarse and dusty, like it hadn't been used enough.

"Hmm? Clark Gable?"

He nodded toward the television.

"Ah, is that the actor's name? Well, I suppose he would. I can't imagine someone who wouldn't, to be honest. Anyone should be fond of a simple delicacy such as that. Though I'd prefer it with a biscuit."

"What kind of jelly is his favorite, do you think?"

"He seems the type to enjoy strawberry. Or perhaps boysenberry. I like boysenberry myself. Though I admittedly have a weakness for grape." I smiled at him again, and he blinked at me, but then looked away. I wanted him to start yelling, to start running around and dancing and saying ridiculous things like he always did. This reminded me too much of that time when we had stood on the battlefield opposite one another. There had been the same sadness in his eyes then, when he had pointed the gun at my forehead.

"Alfred? Won't you tell me what's the matter?" I said softly. We were sitting shoulder to shoulder. Then, instead of responding, he did something completely unexpected. He lifted one of the small sandwich pieces and held it to my mouth. My eyes widened as I stared at it, felt his fingertips nearly brushing my lips.

"Alfred, wha—?"

"You said you like grape. This is grape," he replied. It was so simple. Like a child. For a terrifying moment, I had a flashback of myself, feeding him like this when his hands had been small and his voice had been weak. A long, long time ago. I opened my mouth. He put the sandwich onto my tongue and watched me chew, his eyes still sunken and dark.

"Thank you, Alfred." I hugged my knees to my chest and stared forward, unable to look into his eyes anymore. I couldn't bear it. "You know, we really miss you. We all do. Francois, Ludwig, Lovino and Feliciano, Kiku, Toni, Yao...even Ivan. And Matthew, of course. He misses you terribly. Everybody."

Alfred lifted the cup of milk and brought it to his lips, sipping as tentatively as an infant.

"To be honest with you, old chap, we're not entirely sure what to do without you. Everything is falling apart. As it turns out, you are the infrastructure of everything." I paused, trying to find a way to word it correctly. "Please tell me what's wrong, Alfred. Perhaps I can help. It's not healthy to be cooped up in here like this."

"It's so weird for me to be depressed like this, huh?" he said.

In his state of exhaustion and sluggishness, he put the tray on the ground next to him and leaned his head on my shoulder. And, for some reason, I wasn't surprised. I wasn't taken aback, wasn't shaken. As if, in my heart of hearts, I had been expecting this—hoping for it, even. I put my arm around his shoulder and squeezed.

"I'm supposed to be the powerful one," he said. His body felt lighter than usual. He had lost weight. I could feel him shaking against me, ever so slightly. "Just a little while ago, everything seemed fun and exciting and I was on top of the world..."

"It's okay to not be so powerful all the time," I whispered. I leaned my cheek against his head, and I wanted him to cry on my shoulder. I wanted him to cry until he fell asleep there in my arms. "I mean, look what happened to me. There are other people to help carry the weight of the world, you know."

"I don't want anybody else to help me carry it," he murmured. "It's painful."

"Come now. It's in bad taste to refuse those who offer help, is it not?"

I felt something cold and heavy on my shoulder, and I knew that the tears hidden in his eyes had finally fallen. I still wasn't completely sure what had brought on this slump in him. Perhaps being overworked. Perhaps years and years of everything building up and finally crashing down on him. Perhaps a sense of responsibility so great that it was crushing—after all, we had all been relying on him immensely after the war.

This is partly our fault, isn't it?

"Cry, Alfred, cry. It will help you."

"We don't have any money. We don't have any food. Nothing is going right anymore. Nothing. I don't remember ever feeling this lonely, Arthur..." His voice broke off then as he cried into my shoulder, his entire body shaking. I held onto him, wrapped my other arm around him. Put my hand against his head and stroked his hair. He was so small, all of a sudden.

This is selfish, isn't it?

"It'll be all right. Cry. I'm here."

I felt his fingers grasp at my shirt and his tears run down my neck. Clark Gable was still speaking to someone on the television. I couldn't remember when I'd been able to hold him like this...not since he had grown so big. I thought of the times I had held him before, and realized the dormant desire within me to hold him again. I let that dormant desire take me over, let it cleanse me body and soul. As Alfred wept, I put my lips to his forehead and I kissed him. I let myself hover there, to make him understand that I was there for him. That I was there to help pull him from this great depression in which he'd found himself.

Selfish bastard, Arthur. You're selfish...so selfish...

Alfred fell asleep in my arms. And once he was asleep, I held him as tightly as I could and I let myself cry, too.

psst. you.

yeah, you.

the sexy one.

you should review.

thx.

ur sexy

bye