Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Author's Note: I would like to start this off by saying that I have no idea what in the world soldiers go through in war and I don't pretend to. This is simply a tribute to those who have died because no one should have to go through the ordeals soldiers go through, and again, I don't know the extent of them, only what I've heard. To me, the Fourth of July is a day to remember the fallen, so that's why I wrote it. I wish I could write it so people could appreciate more what soldiers do for us Americans and what it means to us, but I lack the skill and knowledge to do that. Basically, keep the soldiers that fight for your country in mind when you read this. They do more than you'll ever know. Don't ever undervalue them, ever.

Warm summer light filtered through the windows, a phrase some would call redundant. Light was inherently warm so there was no need to add the additional adjective to the phrase. Then again, those people probably never stood in a patch of winter light barefoot and could still say that they or the light were warm. Anyone who spent a winter with Russia would know that light was most definitely not inherently warm. The warmth came with summer most of the time.

Today, one could say that the whole room was warmer just because it was Alfred's birthday and the already overly cheery nation had become even more pleased with life because it was the Fourth of July. Blue skies stretched in all directions and America could sense his people's patriotism without even trying. Red, white, and blue banners stretched outside his window going all the way down the street and American flags hung from every door. Things didn't get any better than this. He pulled a coke out of the fridge and grinned. Well, maybe they could.

The phone rang and he picked it up without checking the ID. Who had time for that? He needed to figure out who to invite over this year. Maybe France and Germany. Those two didn't get along because of their personality differences, so taking them out to a bar might bring a few laughs, then they could enjoy the fireworks later. No, a parade would be more fun than fireworks, and maybe they could do both if the two cooperated. America reveled in all the things he could do today. The list was literally endless.

"America, are you even there?"

Alfred rolled his eyes. Of course Britain would call him on his birthday. Nice of him, but they guy got a little upset about it since this was the day he declared independence from the older nation. That was still a sore spot between the two, unfortunately. He wished it wasn't. He didn't mind hanging out with the British dude, so long as he didn't make any jokes to his role as the hero. That was a job he took very seriously.

"Alfred!"

Oh right, England was still on the phone. He smirked. Just a little longer and…

"Bloody git hung up on me," he grumbled.

"Dude I'm right here!" he laughed. "And you're the one who was always talking about waiting your turn!"

"I believe I also taught you to mind your manners!" he snapped. "It isn't good form to leave someone on the other end of the phone thinking you've hung up on them!"

America chuckled. "Dude, chill. Seriously you need to lighten up."

"No I do not," he muttered. "You need to grow up. You haven't changed since the 1800's."

"Nope, not really. You just noticed?" For a split second he thought about giving a history lesson in a Britain-like frame of mind before dismissing it with a slight shudder. He could shock Iggy into silence by explaining the reasons why he grew up so fast when it took the other nations such a long amount of time, but he didn't feel like it, plus it would ruin his 2D image. He wasn't stupid, he simply rather having fun than taking things seriously.

"You're doing it again, America," Britain growled. "Did you even hear what I said?"

"Wha- Oh, no, sorry. Spaced out," he chuckled.

He sighed. America could almost imagine those green eyes weary with dealing with the younger nation, even if they hadn't been on the phone that long. It made him smile.

"I called to wish you a happy birthday."

Alfred waited for some rebuke about splitting from his older brother or a taunt asking how he liked the responsibilities of being a nation, but nothing came. Eventually the silence became too long to tolerate and he gave up waiting.

"Well, um, thanks." Within a split second he had another of his brilliant ideas. "Hey, you're a pretty good drunk and I'm having a party later with France and Germany. Wanna come?"

"Egh-!"

America couldn't tell if the words got caught in Britain's throat or he just died, so he refrained from laughing, at least for now. Once the other nation started spluttering he figured that he wasn't dead yet, news that many others would be sad to hear, but he hoped that Britain hadn't lost all coherent thought by thinking of being nice to France. It'd be a pain to rehabilitate him from such a state.

"I refuse to come to some party of yours if you expect me to get drunk and socialize with that damned frog! You must be joking!"

He grimaced and held the phone away from his ear. Could he be any louder?

"Geez Louise, no need to bite my head off," he said, daring to bring the phone in a little closer.

"I am not coming," he said stiffly.

He shrugged. "Fine, but would you mind calling Germany and France for me? I've gotta run. I should be in the taxi-" He glanced at his watch and frowned. "-Now. I've gotta catch a plane and run to DC."

"You don't have to work today, do you?" Britain asked, concern sneaking into his voice, although he tried to hold it neutral. Sometimes Alfred found it a bit odd how his former brother cared, even though he tried to hide it and seemed to absolutely despise him at other times for what he said and did. He thought that England should decide whether to be brotherly or a rival, but then again he couldn't decide if he was Catholic or Protestant after all these years.

"No, I don't have to," he answered, giving up on the hope that Britain would flip over being ignored again. "Congress is meeting for a little bit today because the boss said they were slacking, but they said I could do what I wanted."

"Then why are you going to DC?"

"Uhhh…"

The resulting pause was enough to give Britain his answer. He had gone through this before.

"No," he said firmly. "Not on your birthday. Do it tomorrow. I don't think anyone will think you are being disrespectful if you wait a day. Just stay home and wait for your guests to arrive. I'll call your brother and have him come down and keep you company. You understand that America? Stay there!"

"Bye Iggy. I've got a plane to catch and I can't miss it," he said cheerfully, as if the other nation hadn't protested so.

"United States of America, you are not to-!"

He hung up the phone and left before England could finish, grabbing a backpack and leaving the phone on the counter so Iggy couldn't bother him about this. He was going to go whether his older brother wanted him to or not.

With the amount of resigned tension in the air, a feeling made possible by those who wanted to change things so badly but knew they couldn't do a thing about past events, he almost expected the ground to crunch when he stepped on it, like walking on snow, or the air to shatter when he moved through it. Such was the nature of this place, not an awful place, but most definitely a somber one. That's what he thought most of the time when the war took yet another toll on him and he paid a visit here, not because his boss demanded it, but because he'd never forgive himself if he missed the burial of one of his soldiers if he could help it. Maybe some of the other nations found that to be naïve and thought he could be doing better things with his time, seeing the tribute as little more than a sweet and loyal quirk of the young nation, but he couldn't disagree more. His whole existence he owed to those soldiers and he and all of his citizens knew it.

All of this and he hadn't even walked through the gates yet. Alfred stared at the sign that marked the entrance to the cemetery: Arlington. Right now staring was all he thought he could do, the exact number of dead burned into his mind, yet he had to go in. Canada told him he didn't have to do it, that he did enough already for those who had fallen, since he knew how much it pained his brother to see the graves, but America politely declined with a solemn attitude that scared Matthew, knowing how energetic Alfred usually was. Already America thought he didn't do enough for his soldiers. Paying his respects was the least he could do. The blonde steadied himself, walked past the iron, and nearly gasped from the pain that radiated through his whole body, almost like a memory of wars past fought, like the numbed effects of each one of them striking him all at once. He grimaced and kept walking. It happened every time without fail and had grown worse in recent years because of the war in the Middle East. There were a lot of countries mad at him about that. He rolled his left shoulder, since his right arm was in a sling and it was sort of hard to roll your shoulder without managing to hurt your fractured arm, one of the worst effects war and a recession had had on him. It had only throbbed originally, but then someone rammed into him on accident, a drunken Russia if he remembered correctly, and it broke. He hoped it would heal quickly so it wouldn't affect the economy too badly. That was the last thing he needed.

He shook his head to clear the thoughts and took in the cemetery, breathing it in. It felt like he had a thousand pinpricks on his skin as he past the nameless dead, those who died in war before dog tags had been thought of or had lost their tags somehow. Either way, no one knew who they were now. It pained him to see just how many people had been forgotten over the years, people who had fought so bravely. He scanned the endless graves, just endless, before he had to remove Texas and wipe his eyes. Goddamn, all this on his birthday too. Still, he didn't feel right partying the night away without doing something to remember the people who made this day possible. On every grave was a small American flag waving in the wind, planted by soldiers a few days earlier. Although he loved the gesture, it served to make him more upset. He didn't mind too much. He'd be more upset if it didn't move him, if it didn't move anyone who passed through the gates.

America placed his glasses back on his face and shoved his free hand into his pocket, continuing down the path he had walked so many times. He thought of past battles and how he could have done things better, reduced the number of casualties, but knew that most of it had been out of his hands. Still, that didn't make him any less innocent. Blood stained his hands, would always stain his hands, and even more blood would dye them redder still in years to come. Such was the fate of a nation. He didn't regret the wars or how they initially started, just the ways they spiraled out of control and the number of dead. Most hadn't been too bad in the scope of war, a few even made him feel like the hero he called himself all the time, but some, by god some he'd do anything to go back and change. Hopefully he and his bosses and maybe even the other countries would learn from the mistakes. He counted on it. So many couldn't have died in vain. He wouldn't allow it. The hero could certainly guarantee that, right?

"Excuse me, sir? Are you okay?"

The voice snapped him out of his reverie and back to the present, where he realized he wasn't walking anymore. Alfred thought about putting on his cheery attitude just to make the woman standing behind him not worry so, but in this place, his happy-go-lucky, 2D self didn't seem to fit. He faced the rows of graves and shook his head, unable to convey his thoughts.

"What happened to your arm?" she said after the pause.

He almost said, 'it's a side effect of war and the recession,' but caught himself in time and said, "I threw myself into a few more situations than I could handle I guess." Standing around with drunken Russia, that was the situation he considered to have pushed it over the edge and lead to the fracture.

"That wasn't too bright."

He glared at his shoes. "Yeah, I know. I get that from my older brother when things like this happen, but hey, it comes with my job."

She didn't respond to that, only nodding automatically in response. America couldn't live with the silence and the pressure on his shoulders, the one caused by seeing Arlington again. Alone it hadn't been so bad, but with company, it made him painfully aware of how, of how- He couldn't find the words to describe the feeling. Dread didn't cover it. It was a personal experience and for the life of him he couldn't find the words to make it tangible.

"There are a lot of dead," he said lamely to break the quiet, his hand balling into a fist inside his pocket. "You know there've been a lot of people who have died in battle, but it's so easy to forget how many until you come back here. It's easy to be upset about it when you know that people died, I mean, most Americans don't forget that their freedom was won by others, but you don't get the scale until you're looking at the fields of dead. I've never thought that the liberty gained wasn't worth it, but sometimes I wish the cost wasn't so high."

The woman stepped up to his side, wearing an expression that mirrored his, just a mask to keep the other emotions at bay. "Who did you lose?" she asked.

The unexpected question pulled him away from the graves. "What?" In that moment of surprise his façade cracked, and he was so sure that she saw written on his face that he had lost every soldier here, but fortunately by that point she had glanced back over the graves. By the time she looked back he had recovered, keeping the way he freaked out over the slip inside his head.

She smiled sympathetically, although it didn't reach her eyes, which held a pain Alfred knew all too well yet didn't know at all. He shared his citizens' pain when they lost loved ones when he went to war but never had the misfortune of experiencing it first-hand. He hoped that neither Britain nor Canada would ever die and leave him behind. The thought of one of them leaving him gave him the chills and his breath caught, even if he and the uptight British dude weren't brothers anymore. Just having one of them sick or injured from one kind of event or another was bad enough.

"I lost my nephew," the woman said slowly once she saw Alfred wasn't going to answer, restraining tears but not her grief. "He went into the war at eighteen because he always wanted to defend his country. He said it was his duty to do so. He left with a smile and saying he'd be back. He sent back postcards every week, telling us the bare minimum so the letters wouldn't be censored and we could know that it was really him talking to us." She covered her mouth with a hand, her lip and voice quavering. "They said he died when he threw himself over a comrade who wouldn't duck just as the enemy opened fire. They said he died instantly and there would have been no pain. They gave him a medal for it and they gave us a flag, but it doesn't, it won't, it can't replace him." America closed his eyes to it, holding back tears of his own, but he kept listening. He had to keep listening if he ever wanted to look another nation, anyone really, squarely in the face again.

"The man was discharged afterwards and went back to his family," she continued. "I'm glad the children have their father back unharmed, but sometimes I just want Benjamin back. I just want him back. I keep expecting to see him walking up the driveway, laughing and telling us all that it was a mistake, but I know it won't happen. I, he, it doesn't make any sense. He's dead."

The last line spoke so much to America, the fact that yet another soldier had died, the woman's disbelief over her nephew's death, and her unwilling acceptance of it as well. He drew in a shaky breath and turned to her, not without a small bit of reluctance. It hurt so to see what happened to his citizens because of war through anything, but actually seeing it was an entirely different story. He wanted to tear his hair out, but he only sighed and ran his hand through instead.

Goddamn this isn't fair! No one should be dying! I should be out there now, broken arm or not, helping them, making sure they come home safely. How long does this war have to go on, and why can't I win? Why can't I do anything?

America calmed the torrent of self-rebuke and focused on the problem at hand. This was another small thing he could do for his people and one that might mean just as much as his respects or even a little more.

"I'm sorry about his death, really I am. It's never a good thing when someone so young dies because of a war, when anyone dies, but thank you for telling me that. I know what it's like to lose someone you care about, not a relative, but friends. I fought alongside a few people, brave, selfless people like your nephew." He smiled, the expression bittersweet, through the tears that fell down his face, looking out at the cemetery again. "I always want each and every one of them to come home without a scratch, even though I know that won't happen. It hurts every time another one of them dies and it's only though the resolve of the others that I keep going, that I can keep going. Your nephew, I don't think I can ever say how grateful I am that people are still so patriotic. These days it's harder to find people like that, those who will stand up for their country willingly and happily, even though they know that they might not live through it. There are still a lot of them, I know that, it just seems I have trouble bumping into them more these days. I think that means I should be looking harder." He took off his backpack and pulled out flowers and a letter. "I wanted to place these somewhere, as thanks to the soldiers for today, but I didn't know where. Could you put it on your nephew's grave, please? I think that'd be a nice place to put them. It's not much and it'll never be enough, but something I can do right now."

The woman sniffed and took them gingerly. "You didn't even know him," she said softly.

He shrugged, trying to erase some of the melancholy feeling the story gave him and the memories of the battle field that arose after hearing it, the bloody, awful memories he could do without, the scenes stretching all the way back to the late 1700s. Some wars… They all were bloody and he hated them, but… He shuddered and shook his head, returning to the scene at hand.

"That doesn't really matter. All that matters is he fought, he died, and he had family that loved him." America zipped up the pack and fought to get it past the sling and back on, remembering the boy's funeral. It hadn't been too long ago, just half a year, but long enough to forget the face on the portrait and for the name to join the countless others. At least he recognized the name was about all the consolation he could give himself. He felt like banging his head against a wall because of it all. Damned war and all its costs.

"What's your name?" she asked, touching the rose petals fleetingly.

"Alfred Jones," he replied, starting on down the path again. "Tell your nephew I said thanks, if you do that kind of stuff. Some people don't want to for whatever reason. I just want you to know how grateful I am." He looked back. "Really, thanks. It's because of people like him that this country exists at all. I, this nation wouldn't be America you're used to without those like him."

The woman waved goodbye and opened the letter, mumbling the words aloud.

My Dear Soldier,

You have no idea what your sacrifices means to me. From one war to the next people have died to keep freedom alive and I don't imagine that line will stop with you. I wish it would, but it won't. I don't think there are any words to express what it's like for a family to lose a brother or a sister, a mother or a father, a son or a daughter, so it's pretty stupid for me to write this in the first place. You can't even read it. Maybe it's the thought that counts. Anyway, it's the Fourth of July, and we have that day because soldiers fell and fall for our freedom. I think too many Americans forget that. Just know that I will never forget your sacrifice. This country will never forget.

Alfred Jones,

The United States of America

Alfred stopped at each plot of graves to remember the war the soldiers fell in before moving on to the next, old memories surfacing again and again until he could barely look at the graves without his breath hitching. A few more people shared stories with him, each reminding him why he fought, why he had such a need to declare independence and fight for himself. It wasn't for the pride or the glory or even to be a hero, it was for the people. A government for the people and by the people created a nation for the people, by the people, and proud of his people. That's what it was to be American. He walked out of the gates, the last rays of sunlight filtering down through the trees. America squinted at the golden light, the last traces of physical pain Arlington caused him beginning to fade. Within two or three hours France and Germany, and apparently Canada because Britain probably called him after he ran off to DC, and whoever they wanted to bring that he was on good terms with would be over at his house for his birthday party, sharing a few drinks tonight and watching fireworks, so he needed to hurry to his flight back to New York, but he didn't particularly want to. He lowered his gaze and took in the people around him, smiling just a bit.

"Thank you, all of you, who died to ensure that there would forever be liberty and justice in this country, that there be a Fourth of July to celebrate," he whispered to the open air. "Thank you."

"Alfred!"

America spun around to find Britain glaring at him from down the sidewalk, still dressed formally in black even though the temperature outside was ridiculously hot. It couldn't be comfortable, but his gentleman manners wouldn't allow him to waver from his dress code. Alfred grinned and waved.

"Yo, Iggy! You came for a drink later?"'

Britain sighed and hung his head, walking up to America's side. "Fine, but only one. I will have only one scotch, you understand? No more, and don't you dare try to persuade me to have another!"

America chuckled and threw his arm around the other nation's shoulders. Britain always had "one" drink, ending up drunk without any persuasion necessary, though perhaps the presence of France would be enough to keep Britain wary enough to stay semi sober. The younger country earned another glare for the affectionate gesture, but the UK didn't protest any further than that. America hoped that it meant that Britain didn't mind how he ran off to DC against his wishes.

Britain nudged America in the side. "What, have you suddenly gone mute? You do know it's your birthday and not mine, right?"

"What?" he asked, confused.

He shrugged America's arm off, smirking. "I can't think of a better gift you could give me than silence."

Alfred snorted and shoved Britain away with a smile. "C'mon, you know you love me. Why else would you have fought with France over me?"

He rolled his eyes. "Because I don't like France. Is that a simple enough answer? No wait, you won't accept that because you're not at the center of it."

"I could just ask France when he gets here."

Britain's face reddened, whether from anger or embarrassment America couldn't tell. "You bloody git! What point is there in asking the frog! You won't do anything of the sort and that's an order!"

"When will you learn that ordering me doesn't work?" Alfred said, smirking, then his eyes widened and snapped his fingers. "Oh, why didn't you want me coming down here? You were, uh, ticked when you figure it out." He didn't want to say that Iggy had a temper tantrum in case the nation decided to curse him. Even if he didn't believe in the stuff it was annoying.

Britain hooked his thumbs in his pockets and shrugged, a little more nonchalant about it than Al expected. "It didn't seem fitting for a nation to be mourning on his birthday," he said. "Then again, you should be allowed to do what you please. You have certainly shown that you won't let anyone stop you from having your way."

He gave him a pained look. "Aww c'mon, don't bring that up. Are Germany and France coming?"

"Yes, Germany and unfortunately the frog are coming. Germany I can tolerate, especially since he seems to be able to fix my watch even when he's drunk beyond comprehension." Frowning, he pointed at his stuck watch strapped around his wrist.

America chuckled and smiled. Of course he'd bring the one watch he owned that didn't work so Germany could fix it. Britain could be a stiff, but he was a fun stiff, and to be honest, there was no one else he'd rather spend his birthday with. They might have had their fights, but he loved knowing that he still had his older brother to turn to when the day was done and that Britain actually cared enough to fly all the way over when he was concerned.

"You're buying my ticket to New York, by the way," Britain stated, breaking America's train of thought. For once he didn't mind the annoyed undertones of his brother's speech.

"If you buy me a drink."

He thought about it. "I can live with that. Oh, and one last thing."

"Yeah?" he half asked, half moaned, dreading what was going to come next. The taunt he had been waiting for since this morning had to be coming. It just had to, but the happiness and lack of a cocky attitude to Britain seemed to contradict that.

Britain looked over at his former colony and gave a small smile. "Happy Birthday America."

Alfred blinked in surprise then smiled back. He hailed a taxi and held the door open for Britain, giving him a bit of a shock. He laughed and climbed in the cab after him, looking forward to the night ahead of him. His respects had been paid and now he could have fun, but he'd rather die than forget his soldiers. Still, Britain had been right in saying that no nation should be moping on his birthday. Alfred leaned back in his seat, listening to Britain ramble on about nothing in particular and enjoying the Fourth of July just a little more than the average American.