I don't own Hetalia.

Amelia glared at her reflection angrily in the mirror as she stepped out of the shower. Though steam rose to collect on the glass and she had a towel wrapped tightly around her, she could still clearly see her imperfections creasing around her body. After seeing herself bare skinned, the image of every mark, every disfiguration was drilled into her brain.

It would be a strange sight, seeing her so distressed, for anyone who knew the happy, always smiling American, but then again, everyone had their secrets.

And she kept them hidden well. It seemed as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Wearing high rise shirts, completely showing off almost, if not all of, her torso, was just an excuse to make other people believe that nothing was out of the ordinary. Her flaws were too evident to leave alone however; everyday, she'd get up earlier than anyone else just to dip her fingers into her large jar of cover up, hidden behind everything else in the medicine cabinet. She would coat her body in the thick, cool liquid until the sight of herself satisfied her. In reality though, it never did, no matter how much she painted herself.

No one, not even her family, had ever seen a single defect that she had. Memorizing their sleeping schedule and morning routine, she was able to sneak out of her room and do her business before hiding back under the covers for a few more hours. They seemed to detect nothing or at least they didn't allow her to believe that they did.

But this morning was different, she could feel it. Something was askew, as if the atmosphere in the house held tension. Allowing the thought to escape her brain, she quickly tied her short, blonde hair up into a small bun, water still dripping down her back. Just as she began to drop her towel to the floor, the odd feeling was back again.

Not a second after the towel had hit the floor had the bathroom door swung open. There was no knock, no indication of someone coming to enter the room. Freezing in her position, as if she wouldn't be seen that way, her baby blues widened at the sight of her half-asleep brother rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with his fists.

"Ames?" he muttered sleepily, letting out a loud yawn. "What're you doing up? It's like five in the morning, and I heard the water running. Is something wrong?" He cut himself off as his eyes fully opened properly; his pupils grew to fill up half of his face just as his jaw slowly began to drop.

Scars. That was all he saw. Scar after scar after scar, gracing his sister's entire, smooth tan body. Each time he would try to avert his eyes to somewhere else on her completely nude form, he was hit with another scar. There were small scars, long scars, red ones, fading ones. But the fact still stood: his sister looked like she was one big, never ending scar.

"Matthew, please, don't-"

"What the fuck, Amelia?" he shouted, reaching out to grab a hold of his sister's thin wrist. "What is this? Why haven't I ever seen these? Why haven't you let me see these? You know I have them too! What was going through your head? Were you even-"

"Matthew," she whimpered, placing a trembling hand over her brother's tense one. "Please, calm down, it isn't-"

"-isn't what? Isn't that bad? Don't give me that crap, of course it isn't! And you know it!"

It wasn't just bad; no, it was terrible. For hundreds of years, she had kept her blemishes hidden, never to be seen by anyone but her. And now, all of the walls she had built up around her and her secrets were crumbling before her.

Matthew's face was hard and his glare set, but inside his chest, his heart was shattering. His sister, always so strong, so optimistic, had thought to keep hidden something that she couldn't control. Every country, no matter how old, no matter how new, had scars. And yet she had refused to share them with anybody, including him, her own brother.

Of course he was mad. But overall, he was confused and helpless and completely lost. His violet eyes were focused primarily on her face instead of the bright red scars that blurred his vision every time he merely glanced at one. But even looking at her face was a challenge; her eyes were pleading so desperately, her forehead folded with worried lines.

No, he thought, making his decision. This has to stop.

"Matthew, I'm begging you. I'm fine, just please don't tell anyone," she said, clutching to him, as if he would disappear at any moment.

"Like hell I won't," he ground out, tugging her out of the bathroom, still completely naked. Screeching, she tried to cover her body as best as she could with only one available arm, but in reality, nakedness was the least of her concerns; without having to tell her, Amelia already knew where he was taking her.

Flashbacks, memories of each individual scar, drifted into her mind, and she couldn't get them to stop. This was exactly why she didn't want anyone to know; she would have to relive everything all over again.

She tried to wiggle her way out of Matthew's grip, but he was much stronger than he looked to be. He kept his hold secure, but not hard enough to bruise her already fragile skin.

Reaching the end of the hallway, he didn't even bother to knock on the door, an obvious theme with him that morning. "Arthur! Francis! Get up!"

The two figures in the bed shot up, frantic. After years of raising two rambunctious nations that were always full of surprises, they had been awoken many times. And screaming was never a good sign when it came to the two of them.

"Bloody hell," Arthur grumbled, running his fingers through his sandy blond hair. "It's five in the morning. What are you two doing up?" He looked away from the fuzzy numbers on his alarm clock to look towards his children. "Amelia? Why in the world are you naked?"

"Oh hon, hon, hon," Francis's eyes gleamed, a smirk playing on his lips. "So eet ees one of z'ose kind of mornings, non?" Arthur slapped the Frenchman on the shoulder, scolding him with a cold, harsh look.

"Non!" Matthew said, pushing Amelia a bit further forward. "Take a fucking look at your daughter!"

Something had to be wrong. The sweet, easygoing Canadian never let his mouth even grace over a curse word, let alone would he ever shout one.

Arthur, becoming a bit more worried than he originally was, he looked from Matthew to Amelia, and though at first, his cheeks tinted a light pink at the sight of his fully grown daughter completely exposed, his mind did a complete one-eighty when he noticed what Matthew had; scars.

It didn't take much longer for Francis to notice the same thing. Both threw the covers off of themselves, standing up to move in front of Amelia. They looked down at her, two sets of eyes blinking in confusion.

For a while, they said nothing. What were they meant to say? All they could do was stare at her, making Amelia feel more defective than she already was. Her arms wrapped around her torso, covering the majority of the marks that she had never wanted to be seen.

"Can I go now? And you know, put on clothes?" she asked softly, turning her head to avoid eye contact. She knew that if she met either of their gazes, she would cry, something she promised she would never allow herself to do over something so petty as stupid, unchangeable scars that she would just have to live with.

"You certainly may not!" Arthur said, large eyebrows furrowing as he forced his daughter's arms away from their shielding position. "Where did these come from?"

Amelia could feel the slightest bit of anger building up in her throat. "What are you talking about? We all get these! I've seen yours!"

"Yes, that's my point! You've seen mine! How the hell did you cover those? Especially when you wear those bloody revealing shirts all the damn time?"

Arthur's grief was overrun by his fury; he wouldn't allow himself to get upset, not in front of his children, especially not when Amelia was in the state she was. But how could he not be mad? Not at her, but at himself? How could he not have noticed? The young nation had already been in so many wars, she had to have scars, at least small ones. So why didn't he notice when he hadn't seen any on her?

A hand clapped onto Arthur's shoulder, soft and reassuring. "Amelia," Francis said from behind his husband, "what your father ees trying to zay ees zat we are just a bit surprised."

"A bit?" Arthur exclaimed, head turning quickly to glare at Francis. "A bit? I'm more than a bit surprised, you bloody frog!"

"Hush, mon amour," Francis said, cupping his hand over Arthur's running mouth, much to the Brit's dismay. "Amelia, darling, we are your family. Why would 'ou hide some'zing like zis from us?"

Looking down, still not completely on board with the idea of discussing something she had kept hidden for years, she shrugged her shoulders. "I dunno. It felt easier, I guess. Hiding them...it was as if they weren't there. For at least a little while, I guess."

No country wanted to admit anything about their scars, but no nation had ever gone as far as taking the time to completely try to erase them from other's views. What Amelia, a country who had gone through so much at such a young age, had done was unheard of.

It was silent for a long time until Amelia let out a low hiss, eyes scrunched closed. Letting out small sounds of distress at their daughter's agony, Francis and Arthur stepped closer to her, switching to worried parent mode almost instantaneously.

Matthew had run his fingertips gently down his sister's back where two long, identical scars were etched into her skin. Noticing the pain he had caused her, he pulled his hand away, looking around towards her. Arthur and Francis moved to get a closer look at her spine and the scars that bordered it.

"Don't...Don't touch me there," she said, eyes still closed, face still filled with pain. "Those are the...the newest. They still...kinda hurt."

Minds searching, Matthew was the first to determine what she had said, standing up a bit straighter. Two scars, same in length, width and color, almost as if they were identical twins. "September eleventh," he murmured, eyes fixated on her back. The American nodded, chewing on her bottom lip.

"Yeah." Shaking her head, she let out a single forced, hard sounding chuckle. "It was thirteen years ago, but it still hurts if you touch it.

I just remember feeling this really intense pain in my back. For a while, it didn't stop, but then the same pain started on the other side. When we turned on the news...it all made sense. It was as if someone was carving into my skin. I just kept bleeding and bleeding; we were all so afraid that I was going to bleed out." She took in a shaky breath, composing herself over something that happened only a little over a decade before. "But I didn't. And it continued to sting, and it didn't stop for the rest of the day. Or week, really. New York, my home, it was completely in shambles. I wasn't really allowed to forget that. But then again, I wasn't supposed to just forget, was I?"

Wars always gave countries scars, it was well known throughout the entire world. But this wasn't a war. This was...terror. And the scar was still there, a brilliant red, as if it was going to burst and bleed all over again.

"What about these?" Matthew asked, tracing two stars, one more red, the other more yellow, that lie on the upper part of her right arm.

"Vietnam and Korean Wars," Amelia answered simply, recognizing the two still relatively fresh markings. She was talking to openly; when had she decided that it was okay to freely discuss her imperfections so absentmindedly? They weren't anyone's business but her own! Those three didn't need to know about them.

Arthur kneeled in front of her, a bit too close to a certain area than she would've like her father to be by. His eyes were engrossed in a small circular scar on her left thigh. Craning his head up to look at her, he raised an eyebrow expecting her to speak. When she didn't, he placed his palm over the circle, causing her to flinch. "Amelia, what is this?" He received no answer. "Amelia, look at me." She didn't look at him. "Amelia Jones, the United States of America, you look at me this instant." Stubborn in her ways, gaining that trait from both of her fathers, she stood firmly with her decision. "Amelia!"

"Ma chère, please just talk to us," Francis pleaded, softer than his partner was, always the caring, tender parent. Falling to his knees next to Arthur, he looked back up at her, a kindness in his blue eyes. "What ees zis from?"

Eyes filling with tears, she blinked them away, looking towards the light on the ceiling. "World War Two," she said quietly. "Pearl Harbor more specifically."

The three were able to recall that day, receiving phone calls filled with distress and heavy, bad news to report. America had finally agreed to join the Allied Powers but at what cost?

"It's pretty small and faded compared to others," Amelia noted, looking down at one of the many places she would usually see coated with brown coverup. "Though, I suppose Leilani had it worse than me." She shook her head, remembering when she had gotten the news that her daughter was in a horrible, unstable state. "I guess you feel the pain your kids feel. But the fact that it was Leilani..."

Arthur nodded, standing up once more, tucking a damp strand of hair that had fallen out of Amelia's messy up do behind her ear. "She was very young."

"The youngest," Matthew added.

"It wasn't fair to her," Amelia said, shaking her head sadly.

"Nor was eet fair to 'ou," Francis said, grabbing and squeezing Amelia's hand. They seemed to be making progress, but there were still so many scars on her, it felt like it would take ages to determine them all.

On her shoulder, a large 'X' covered the entire area of skin. Matthew touched it softly, afraid of hurting his older sister again. Amelia rolled her eyes, pressing her shoulder closer into his hand. "That one's from World War I. It doesn't hurt anymore," she stated simply, shrugging. "After the Lusitania sank, this stupid thing showed up. I have no idea what an 'X' has to do with a boat but..." She shrugged once more.

"And this?" Matthew asked, still behind her, moving his finger around a tiny circle, though unlike the one she had from World War II, this one was filled in a dark, old looking red, rather than just an outline.

"There's one like that here too," Arthur pointed out, poking her abdomen. She tried to keep herself silent, but she ended up letting a few squeaks escape her mouth. The two men pulled back, as if her skin had burnt their hands.

"Sorry," Amelia mumbled, rubbing her rib lightly. "The one on the back is from James Garfield. The one on my stomach is from William McKinley. I have two similar ones on my head, but you can't see them, 'cause of my hair. JFK and Lincoln."

"Your Presidents that were assassinated," Arthur suspected, and Amelia nodded.

"Yeah. Those still hurt. I didn't really expect them to stop ever really. Especially JFK's. I liked that guy. He was a real cutie."

As Matthew and Arthur reveled in the fact that Amelia held each of her bosses so close to her, close enough for scars to shoot her when the Presidents were shot as well, Francis let out a light gasp of, "Mon dieu." Catching the attention of his husband and son, they stood next to him, looking in the same direction he was.

What he was so astounded by was a long scar that wrapped completely around Amelia's lower torso and back, just above her belly button. "What is that?" Matthew blurted, unaware of how his tone would affect Amelia's take on her blemish.

"Well, when your country tears itself in half, they tear you in half too," she spat. "It hurt for the entire four years of the war. It stopped when it was settled, but the scar never faded. I guess once a part of your country tries to leave you...not only does your brain not allow you to forget, but neither does your body."

Silence settled over them. Sure, parts of them had been taken away, but their own country trying to break away from them? They couldn't imagine the immense amount of pain it must've but Amelia through.

She wasn't a weak country, that was quite evident throughout history. But seeing firsthand all of the pain that she had to endure emphasized her strength.

"Zat's a weird one," Francis admired, directing their attention towards a scar shaped as an upwards pointing arrow, a dark brown, unlike the other red ones, situated on the back of her neck. "What ees eet from?"

Her eyes locked in on Matthew's curious, violet irises, and she allowed herself to grin weakly. "The War of 1812." The quiet, invisible nation faltered, leaning in closer. "Yeah, I guess it's there to remind me where my little brother is. And what land is rightfully his."

Of all people to cause a scar to stain her already so damaged skin, it was Matthew? His shoulders sunk into him as realization hit him. He was so young, and Arthur had done most of the fighting for him. But it was all over his land. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? At a loss for words, he reached around to gently stroke the nape of her neck, twisting to press the softest kiss he could there. "I'm sorry," he whispered in her ear as he pulled back.

"Oh, don't flatter yourself, Mattie," she giggled, the most sincere laugh she had mustered all day. "Besides, it's kinda artsy, don't you think?"

The last thing she wanted to see was Matthew upset; though Matthew did see her as his shorter, more petite sister, he was still her little brother. Seeing his lips fall into a frown set off a warning signal somewhere inside of Amelia.

All of them seemed to have been assessed, every marking on America's body evaluated. But then Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin. The remaining three, confused, searched to find what he was gapping over.

"Arthur, mon lapin," Francis doted over his husband, wrapping his arms around Arthur's swaying form before he fell over. "S'il vous plaît, calm down. Or at least tell me what eet ees that 'as frightened 'ou zo."

Breaking out of Francis's hold, he turned back to Amelia. Gripping her shoulders, his eyes shook with fear and worry. Frightened, Amelia felt unbelievably small. Her father was towering over her, staring as if he was interrogating her. Voice quivering, green eyes filled with anticipation, Arthur asked urgently, "Why is there a scar over your heart?"

Amelia's face softened, internally laughing at her father's worry. He was quite overdramatic a lot of the time, which she sometimes forgot about until he had moments of pure panic. "Arthur-"

"Tell me who did it, Amelia!" he demanded, shaking her shoulders slightly. "What country did that to you?"

The heart, of all places to be wounded, was very serious, physically and emotionally. To be scarred from war anywhere near that area, it had to be implausibly important and serious.

"You know, I knew you were thick headed, but really, Artie? I know you're not this stupid."

It took him a moment before all of the pieces of the puzzle were put together. And when everything clicked, his hold on her softened. "No...love, no. You can't mean...you mean the-"

"-Revolution? Yeah." She was brushing it off so maturely, as if it was a nonchalant matter they could discuss over afternoon tea. "Why do you think it's so faded? It's old. Like, eighteenth century old."

"But the heart," he stammered, shaking his head in disbelief, confusing himself even more. "I knew that it would've left you a scar, but why the heart? Of all places?"

She sighed. "I don't usually understand why my scars show up where they are. But," she caught all of their attentions with a small, light curve of her lips, "I do understand this one."

Intrigued, the three other countries stood, waiting patiently, or impatiently with regards to Arthur. "Spit it out!" Arthur said, though his voice didn't sound as if he was really as angry as he made out to be.

"Well...you were the most important to me." The room froze, and it seemed as if time had as well. The air grew colder, and one could cut the tension with a knife. Continuing, Amelia rocked on the back of her heals, "I wanted to be independent, but I never wanted you to leave me for good. So I guess that when we split...my heart did too. Hence the scar." She traced the pale line that cut her heart in two. "Don't make a big deal out of it, alright, ya big, ole sap?"

Arms twinned around Amelia, pulling her flush against a flat, muscular chest that she knew all too well, though she wasn't usually completely nude. Arthur held the back of her head in the crook of his neck, resting his cheek against her hairline. "I'm glad you told us," he whispered. "Even if you hadn't intended to."

Amelia's arms hesitantly came to rest around him, drawing him even closer to her. Words she hadn't said for over a century were her response, "Thank you, Daddy. I love you." She called him Arthur, Artie, England, even Iggy from time to time. But she had flat out refused to call him any fatherly name after the Revolutionary War. But two hundred years later and the same words he had heard when she was only up to his knees had hit his ear with complete surprise.

Peaking over his shoulder, Amelia grinned at the remaining half of her family. "I love you too, Papa. And you too, Mattie. I'm sorry for hiding all of this, I didn't...I didn't want to cause you any trouble, I-"

"Oh, mon petit, 'ou would never cause us trouble with zings like zis," Francis cooed, wrapping his arms around his daughter and husband. "We will always be 'ere to listen to 'ou. Now, Mathieu, come 'ere."

Shyly, the Canadian huddled in next to Francis, resting his head on France's shoulder, arm enfolding around Arthur's waist while his other hand grabbled Amelia's.

'Thank you,' the older of the two mouthed to her little brother. Nodding, he smiled, showing off his deep dimples.

"You were always my little colony," Arthur said, causing Amelia to tense. She hadn't been called colony for longer than she could imagine. But his next words relaxed her, "But I am so proud of the country that you have become." And in that moment, everything was peaceful. Her scars were there, and yes, they were imperfections. But they were imperfections that she had gotten over. Slowly, and with the help of her small, but loving, family.

A/N: I've had this idea for a while, and I finally wrote it ^^

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