A/N: My friend worldaccordingtofangirls inspired me, which is why I wrote this instead of working on my other stuff.
For shame.
Edit: Went through and fixed grammar mistakes; I also increased the coherency of the text by adding line breaks when I switched the POV.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Alfred F. Jones and Kiku Honda are friends.
No, even more than that, they are close friends; the two exchange video games, work jointly on projects regarding technological advancements, and spend quite some time together.
But they are also nations; they have endured countless hardships and suffered much (so much, too much), even at each other's hands.
Especially at each other's hands.
World War Two was not an easy period for any country, no one escaped unscathed; the war had torn across the world, devastating everyone in more ways than one. It began due to grudges long held, unquenchable ambitions, and a certain tension, an anger, a hatred that no one could place.
Those who attempted to avoid it failed.
Kiku, strong and arrogant, conquered his neighbors effortlessly, an unmistakable feeling of power elevating him above the rest; he was great, he was an empire, he was invincible. The Japanese armies swept across Asia, crushing their enemies, those pitiful fools who could barely defend themselves. His navy rivaled the British fleet, its prowess undeniable.
Kiku felt untouchable, a force to be reckoned with, a threat.
He allied himself with Ludwig, who was strong as well, who understood his goals, who shared them, and knew that he would prevail, that there was nothing, no one that could stop him.
Except for a certain American.
That nosy, interfering brat who had secured himself a spot on the world stage after his standoff with the former Spanish Empire. America had a formidable navy, he was in possession of a handful of territories in the Pacific, he made pleas on China's behalf, he placed an embargo on Japan.
He was a nuisance, and Kiku needed to get rid of him.
Alfred had been adamant about his neutrality; he hadn't attempted to step in and help China, nor had he made any move, besides increasing trade with Arthur, in Europe. He was still recovering from the Great Depression, and the last European war he had involved himself in was not a pleasant affair, so he wasn't eager to become entangled in another.
He wanted to help Arthur, and he didn't want the Asian countries to suffer, but he didn't want his men to die and his government would permit no discussion of a declaration of war. He needed to focus on getting back on his feet, they told him; the war in Europe would be over soon and what was happening in Asia would blow over soon enough, he was assured.
He hadn't wanted to be involved in a war.
Kiku's men attack Pearl Harbor December 7th, 1941: they ravage the American fleet, destroy their airfields, and cause the deaths of over two thousand men.
It was the first time Alfred experienced true rage. He was furious, the feeling filling him more than it ever had, his blood boiling and his eyes blazing as he overlooked the damage that had been done, ignoring the pain in his leg. His people's wails sounded loudly in his ears, the flames licking at his form and the smoke making it difficult to breathe as he lay on the ground, his injured knee preventing him from getting to his feet.
It was hard to think because it hurt and they were dying and he was suffocating, but the choler allowed him to formulate one clear, doubtless thought, 'I'm going to make him suffer.'
And he did, oh he certainly did; he had a weapon, a bomb, something that was sure to make Japan tremble in his boots and cower and shake and be afraid and hurt.
Because Alfred wanted him to hurt; he wanted that stupid Jap to bleed and writhe and he wanted him to hear his own people scream-he wanted him to feel what Alfred felt.
His people tested the bomb, because they needed to be sure that it worked properly, that they hadn't been wasting their time, that it did what it was supposed to do, and it did; it would do everything to Japan that Alfred wanted it to do, it would be perfect, it would make him sorry for what he did.
It would make him regret ever messing with Alfred F. Jones, with the United States of America.
There were few things that Kiku regretted more.
The first bomb landed and he burned; he burned and he screamed and he cried and he bled and he thrashed, but it didn't end, it only seemed to get worse. His vision failed him and Kiku was blind, and his hearing did not hold up, trails of blood flowing from his ears; his throat was raw from the screaming but he couldn't stop because there was nothing else he could do and it burned.
It burned, it burned, it burned.
And then it stopped.
Three days later, on the ninth of August, 1945, it began anew and Kiku could not even scream; he clawed viciously at his skin, tearing at his arms and leaving behind ribbons of blood, his back arching painfully as the blinding, choking, deafening, murderous torture gripped at him.
Alfred was horrified; he was stunned, unable to believe that something like this had happened, unable to comprehend that it had been his people who did this, that he had supported this course of action. The casualty numbers were staggering, are staggering, and he felt sick, disgusted with himself and his people and Japan and the world.
Nothing like this had ever happened before, and he had opened the floodgates; he ended the war, but he also ended the lives of hundreds of thousands.
It wasn't worth it.
The once victorious Japanese Empire fell to its knees, surrendering to the Americans, who emerged from the war as a superpower, a force to be reckoned with worldwide. American troops occupied Japan according to the agreement; they would be gone in a few years.
Alfred went to visit Japan in the hospital, marking perhaps the most uncomfortable meeting he had ever held with another nation.
He stood outside of the hospital room for twenty minutes, staring at the door as if it would answer all of his questions, as if it would give him the strength to enter, as if it would forgive him.
Forgiveness was not something he deserved, he decided, swallowing thickly and entering the room with heavy limbs. Blue eyes immediately drifted over to Japan, locking onto his sickly form and refusing to tear themselves away, regardless of how much it pained Alfred to look at Japan.
"I'm sorry." Alfred choked out, hands shaking, head bowed, "I'm so sorry."
Kiku stared blankly at the American for a moment before opening his mouth, the words coming out far more gently than he intended them to (he hated how weak he sounded), "I know."
It took them years to reconstruct their friendship, and when they did it was stronger than it had ever been, but there is no way to be rid of the scars that they have given each other, no method of erasing the memories; nothing can be done about the war and all of the reminders of it, mental and physical, that were left behind.
A part of Alfred will always loathe Kiku: he shall always resent the man for pushing him to the brink, for stealing his innocence, for showing him how dark the world truly is.
He will never forget about the attack on Pearl Harbor, he will never be able to wipe his memory of the flames and the screams and the anger clean.
The American will never forgive Kiku for unleashing such cold, vengeful, unforgiving feelings; he will never be able to dismiss his recollection of that sinister, harsh, caustic, malignant side of him. It was everything about himself that he fears, it was what compelled him to inflict pain on others, it was what brought misery, it was the harbinger of destruction.
Alfred will never be able to let go of the blame he places on Kiku for the bomb; the ire that Kiku incited was what compelled him to use the terrible weapon, it was what urged him to hurt the Japanese man, and because of that many (so many, too many) perished.
Kiku will never forgive Alfred for the complete and utter anguish he experienced; he will never relinquish his hold on the idea that the American is at fault for the deaths, and he will never forget what it felt like.
Alfred blames Kiku for pulling him into the dark; Kiku blames Alfred for searing his skin with the light.
Alfred F. Jones and Kiku Honda are friends, close friends, and they are nations; they care for each other, laugh together, spend time together, and eat together.
But they will never forgive each other.
A/N: I feel like that turned out really well; for some reason it reminds me of At the push of a button (probably because of the mention of atomic bombs), which is good, I suppose.
Review, please; I need some motivation!
Until next time!