He looked at his glowing alarm clock, the numbers mocking him. "Four," he murmured, his eyebrows furrowing. "No sleep again tonight," On and on it went, a continuous cycle. He never got sleep, running on caffeine and hamburgers until he finally collapsed from exhaustion. His record was two weeks without sleep, although that was only possible because he was a world power. He sighed, before rising from the couch, his striped red and blue blanket crumbling in a heap on the floor. He bent down to pick it up, lifting it gently and plopping it back onto the tattered old couch. Out of the corner of his eye, as he bent to reach it, he caught a glimpse of the edge of an old picture frame. He got on his knees, reaching under the couch to grab the frame. Its ancient wood was coated in a thick layer of dust, the picture inside yellowing from both age and being stuck under his couch for at least the last twenty years or so. A silent tear slipped from his eye as he gently rubbed at the picture, wiping away the grime. Blowing on it, he tried to clean it more, attempting to salvage the decrepit black and white photograph within. He sighed again, gently carrying the frame and photograph into the other room, cradling it like one would a child. He reached the kitchen, stumbling in the dark for the light switch. Finally, he reached it, flicking it on before grabbing a rag from the oven handle nearby. Ignoring the clocks on the stove and microwave, glaring down at him as though screaming that he needed sleep, he went to the sink and began to run some warm water, the loudness of the liquid hitting the metal basin shocking him for a second. He dipped the rag into the water, dampening it. He turned off the water, ignoring the steady drip as the flow was cut off. His hand moved to the frame and with calculated precise movements began to take out the photograph. The dust began to be wiped away, his hand barely applying pressure. Tears began to stream down his face now, as the image became ever clearer. He wiped all the dust away, cleaning the frame as well, being certain to not damage the wood or the photograph. The image was perfect now, and he licked away the tears, replacing the picture into its place in the frame. He carried it into the other room then. Upstairs he went, climbing up to the one room he rarely entered. Carefully he set the photograph down, amid piles of his old junk, toy soldiers, an arrowhead necklace, a suit, his WW2 dog tags, his history. There he left it, in pristine condition, yet showing signs that it was older than most people living. There it would sit, until he buried it into the room, covering it with other mementos. Underneath the rubbish it would lie, for years to come. Still, the people in the photo would smile. From the edge of the frame, two men would peer out, both smiling and happy, both finally getting along for the first time since they declared themselves unrelated. They sat frozen in time, unaware of the hardships to come, the wars and attacks. There they rested until the photograph began to crumble into dust, leaving only a shadow behind.
AN: Hi! if you couldn't tell (I sincerely hope you could) the character I never mention the name of is Al (America, Alfred, USA, etc;) and the photo is of Al and Iggy (England, Arthur, Eyebrows, The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, etc;). I know it's kinda short, less than 600 words, but I didn't really know what else needed to be said. This is oddly happy, as far as my normal stories go (most are dark and sometimes gory, even though I'm a happy person) and I'm proud of it. Please review if you liked it! :)