This. I don't know why. But it happened. And it is absolutely nothing but headcannon. But it was fun to write.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia, all rights go to Himaruya
America loved the stars. The night sky was his favorite thing in the universe, especially in those places free of the noise and lights of the city. He also loved the city, his great cities were near and dear to him, but the stars were a thousand times better. There was a certain hill in Idaho that he particularly loved. He could spend forever lying in the grass looking up at the endless expanse of sky, that infinite black velvet sprinkled with infinite sparkling silver beads.
And he did. As the personification of the United States, he could travel instantly to any place within his nation. Any night he was stressed or angry or sad or lonesome or simply couldn't sleep, he went out and laid on his peaceful, secluded hill and stared up at the stars.
They were beautiful to him. To think that there was so much out there, so much beauty to see and explore, it lighted his heart. Sometimes it scared him to think of what could be out there, and sometimes it gave him headaches to try to work out the secrets of the universe, but he still loved those beautiful stars. He still loved the nights he spent there in the cool grass.
In those nights he could forget whatever troubled him. He could look up at the sky and relax. Sometimes he would spend hours looking at all the constellations and retelling himself all the stories he knew about them. All the people who came to his nation brought their legends with them, and he loved each and every one of them. Greek, Egyptian, Norwegian, Japanese, Cherokee, Ojibwa, Creek, Shawnee, Sioux, Apache – he knew all of their star stories by heart. Perhaps it was childish, but the stories comforted him. The assuaged his guilt, calmed his fear, pacified his anger, but more so, they were a part of him.
He knew that many of the other countries didn't like him, but he tried not to dislike them simply for that. He understood that they didn't like him because they didn't understand him. They didn't know how any intelligent person could stay so optimistic in the face of the world, so they assumed he was stupid. They didn't realize he only spoke so loudly because he was, deep down, still afraid of being ignored and unheard, so they branded him obnoxious. They didn't see the beauty of his country that he was so proud of, so they considered him vain. They didn't share his love of discovery of the world around him, so they labeled him childish. But he didn't mind too much. Sometimes it annoyed and saddened him, but he would always remember his starry skies, smile again, and live on and dream on and hope on.
Sometimes when he came home from his stargazing nights, he'd see someone had called his phone. Occasionally, afterwards at a meeting, the nation who had called would ask him why he hadn't picked up.
"Oh, sorry," he would say, "I was out."
"Out doing what?" they would ask, and he would shrug and give some vague non-response and then change the subject. He knew they suspected he was out partying or something, but he didn't care. Their stupidity was theirs.
Anyone who knew him well knew that his idea of a good time was eating pizza, playing video games and watching B-rated sci-fi movies with his friends. Despite the stereotypes of American men, he really wasn't big on alcohol or night clubs or any of that. So he ignored them and lived his life.
He sometimes considered inviting one of the others to join him stargazing, but he always decided not to. Those starry nights were sacred to him, and he knew the other nations well enough to know that they wouldn't appreciate his nights like he did. He could see in their movements, he could hear in their voices that they wouldn't be able to see the stars in the same light he did. They were all caught up in their own lives, so much so that they couldn't take a step back and relax.
But that was their business and their problem. Now, he laid out under those stars so dear to him, telling himself their stories.