I do not own Hetalia
I chose the name Emily for America.
It was midnight and Emily was crying. She stood outside of the busy street, where few people passed by, and leaned against a brick wall. The back of her white silk dress became caked with dirt and torn around the edges. She didn't care. She dug around her pink purse, her fingers scratching through piles of makeup equipment, a book, her wallet, her passport, her best friend's gloves, and several loose coins. Her manicured nails finally hit what she wanted. She pulled the candy bar, wrapped in blue, glittering foil, out of her purse. Tears continued to fall down her face as she munched on the chocolate.
Her sobs had caught the attention of a beggar down the street. The hobbled figure approached her, like a shy pigeon towards and pile of bread crumbs. She looked up, terror filling her eyes. Her hand instinctively clasped around her purse. The other searched for anything that could be used as a weapon.
The figure lurched back, his dirty face staring at her. She looked at it. Despite all her good morals, she relaxed. The man had icy blue eyes and pale hair. He was wrapped in a patchy blanket and he wore a green, dirty jacket beneath. Even though, despite the later hour, the summer air still made the weather pleasantly warm.
Their eyes locked. She felt pity for him. She wet her lips and, using a tissue from the cove inside her purse, she dabbed at the runny eyeliner. The tissue became black as soot. "I have another candy bar, do you want it?" She asked gently. Her blonde curls had come undone and stood as if she had met static.
The man pressed his lips into a fine line, then nodded. His nose was smeared with dirt. He stopped hunching and proved to be taller than Emily was. She imagined him in a suit, clean, proper, presentable. Digging up the candy bar and handing it to him, the image faded. There was always reality, no matter what she might believe.
Taking the chocolate as if it was the last piece of food he would ever get, which could be true, he gobbled it down. His eyes watered in gratitude which he voiced hoarsely. She watched him, taking deep breaths. Fear still lingered in the pit of her stomach. She was a woman, alone at midnight. Nothing about that should be good.
Once finished, the man disposed of the garbage and turned back to her.
"Why are you crying, ma'am?" he asked, with a slight drawl.
Oh, home. Emily nearly started crying again out of relief.
"It's nothing, don't worry, honey. It's been an awfully long night."
The man nodded mutely.
"What's your name?" She asked. "I'm Emily."
"I'm Alfred, ma'am."
She took the tissue she wiped her eyeliner with and folded it inside out, revealing a clean underbelly. She wiped is nose for him, like a mother with her dear child. Alfred scrunched up his features, letting her remove the dirt from the tip of his nose. "Thank you." He said.
He paused, looking at her curiously.
"Why did you ask my name, Emily?"
"Aren't you a person?" She asked happily. "You have a name just like anyone else."
Alfred nodded. It didn't seem to make much sense. Most people who gave him help, gave it and then turned away. Sometimes some people spat on him. He didn't expect someone to give him food and ask for his identity. His old identity, who he once was. I was Alfred F. Jones, he wanted to say. I served for your country. I fought for freedom. Or, at least, I thought I did. Now I eat garbage and my only friends are stray cats.
He said none of this though. She said nothing else. She wanted to help him.
And for once, the reason a person couldn't help him was because she needed help herself.
He opened his mouth to ask her to say what she wanted, but she had already began to walk away. She brushed the dirt off her dress as best she could. In the veil of the nighttime she wouldn't need to.
Alfred lingered there in the alleyway and slunk away, slumping back to his corner.