A/N: OH HAI ROBINROCKS. IT WAS YOUR BIRTHDAY ON DECEMBER 3RD. SO YEAH HERE IS YOUR BIRTHDAY FIC.
For everyone else who is not the lovely and talented RobinRocks, this is my first actual Hetalia fic and lo and behold, it is magically neither GerIta or slash! That's so weird! So, this is a bit dark. Please do not read if you do not like 2nd person narrators, drug usage, swearwords, non-betaread things, or angst. Or Green Day.
Enjoy, guys! Just so you know, the idea for this fic was based off of the songs Boulevard of Broken Dreams, Are We The Waiting, St. Jimmy and American Idiot on the American Idiot album by Green Day. Please do not sue, I do not own the lyrics that are used vaguely. NONE OF THIS IS MINE, FOR THAT MATTER.
So I hope you have a lovely (VERY BELATED) birthday, RobinRocks my dear!
Summary: Don't wanna be an American Idiot...You walk down the barren road one day with the intent on coming back to your beloved NYC after being out West, where you are now, visiting the nowhere that you needed to be. It's a long journey home, and it's normal for your mind to wander. After all, your attention span has been called plenty of nasty things: long was not one of them. Being in the middle of some virtually undeveloped West really made you wonder—which is generally hard to do. You are America after all: even though you appear to be the biggest idiot on the face of the planet in the eyes of every other fucking nation out there—with special regards to Arthur, your only real friend who never really thought highly of you.
But he's a bitter old man now. It is your time under the world's eye. And you walk alone.
Being alone is exactly what it's cracked up to be when it's just you and your shadow. The length of your shade stretches onto the far horizon of the setting sun in the rural undeveloped landscape.
You're reminded of Peter Pan. Arthur must have read you that book when you were young. You smile, remembering it.
It's a different time now, that moment forever frozen on a timeline: a reference date that was never to be visited again. Peter Pan was now a movie for children, and your Walt Disney and his must-be-coked-out mouse capitalize off it every day.
Your smile fades, and you kick away a small pebble that happened to be in your way. Damn it, you really should have gotten a car.
A beaten old sign looms ahead of you, and you have to strain your eyes to see it. It's getting dark after all, your shadow steadily diminishing as the sun sets. Your legs ache from walking, but you can't stop now, or you would never find your way back. So, you keep going.
You were in the city now, one that for no reason at all, you christened Jingletown. The city didn't have the air of lights and fun as the one you passed hours ago had, for now it was the middle of the night... There are no cars. There are no people. The only one there is—
The gaudy neon lights of an abandoned bar flicker and fade out.
There's graffiti all over a police station.
The houses are broken and in shambles.
There isn't anyone here but you.
Hands shaking, you withdraw from your pocket a plastic bag. You can't take this lonely town anymore. It was getting to be too much like those disgusting, poorly made films you would watch with any country that would let you. You inelegantly roll the substance and light it with your American flag Zippo lighter.
Soon, but not soon enough, your heart throbs in your chest, your mind spins in circles and you can't see straight. You felt confidence, as you rightfully should. You are the chosen one, after all. You are America. You are America. You are America: singing out "Are we the waiting unknown?" into the oblivion of night.
No one answers you. You're disappointed, though you have no reason to be. The city you reached is dead.
With an artificial bounce in your step, you keep walking. New York City was only about sixty miles away, and even your shadow wasn't with you anymore.
But what do you care?
Singing are we, we are the waiting unknown... Are we, we are the waiting...
Later, long after you make it home, you'll be telling stories about that boy you used to be not weeks ago, with the glowing red eyes (from lack of sleep, drugs or both) and the venomous leer. As if in denial, you would call yourself someone else then. Jimmy.
Jimmy was especially prevalent in the 1860s. He had a twang in his tone and he felt personally wronged by you. Whether or not that's true is just a matter of lifestyles and opinions.
It was hard to tell then if he was you, or you were him, or if he was a separate man completely. All you know is that when you cave from loneliness, he's there.
And he's always laughing. It's never a happy laugh. It's actually rather murderous. It scares you.
Time passes on. They call you immature. They call you stupid. And you're the only one on Earth who knows you're not just an American Idiot. And if they can't see it, well—you laugh.
Their loss.
So hey, for all you Southerners out there, this is NOTHING AGAINST YOU. I LOVE YOU GUYS. SO DON'T FLAME MEEE.
3 Aud