I don't own Hetalia. If I did, it would have America being plowed every other scene.
Author Note: I don't write stories often. The last story I wrote and uploaded was when I was 14. I'm not a great writer nor to I aspire to be. But I like to write and I hope you enjoy what I have written.
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'The United States of America.'
It was still an odd thing to call himself, considering his wounds from battle were just now starting to heal. Alfred leaned against the doorframe of his country home near Philadelphia, watching the newly mounted American flag waving gingerly in the afternoon breeze. It had taken him a while to mount it, joints and muscles still sore from the years of struggle he had to endure to earn the right to bare that flag.
It had been an extensive fight to finally claim freedom for himself and his people, both physical and emotional. Alfred's feet were still sore from marching throughout the colonies; through mud, snow and everything in-between simply to watch his children fight those they had once called brothers. Death had become a constant part of his life, wondering with each soul lost if this had been worth it.
Alfred slid down to the floor, doorway supporting his weight as he touched down and pulled his knees to his chest. Had he been selfish in placing his people into war simply to prove that he was ready to become his own nation? Did people die meaninglessly because he wanted to makehim proud?
No... They would have fought even if Alfred hadn't rebelled. Before he declared his independence, he had felt the pains of the weight hekept stacking upon Alfred's children. Taxes, taxes and more taxes came flooding Alfred's desk, each stamped with the royal coat of arms.
He'd never met King George III yet here the man was demanding more money.
But Alfred signed each bill, each tax, each law.
No…
He signed them.
He signed each bill, each tax, each law.
He decided what Alfred would do, say, eat, wear.
He was the most valuable piece in this game of chess and Alfred was only one of his many pawns.
But Alfred had never questioned. He moved to each square as told to, protecting and loving him despite the sacrifices the boy had to endure to do so.
It was worth it, wasn't it? They were on the same team…..
Alfred groaned and brought his hand to his eyes, massaging his temples. He hated thinking about him, especially when the other man was in his Pennsylvanian home, collecting the last of his belongings. The house felt emptier now that a lot of the familiar mementos that littered the house were disappearing with him. The bookshelf in the den was nearly empty now, save for a few books he had been too lazy to crack the spines of. Alfred would especially miss the book of fairytales and legends he read to him every night.
Some of them were scary, but Alfred never was bothered by them.
After he was snuggled in his arms, of course.
Alfred wrapped his arms around himself, smiling softly at the fading memory. That…will never happen again will it…
"What are you doing you bloody twat?"
The boy's eyes shot open, springing to his feet to face him as he descended the stairs. Placing his box off to the side, Arthur crossed his arms, glowering at the young nation. "You're letting all the warmth out of the house letting the door sit open like that. I'm not heating the enti—"
The English man fell silent, a flicker of pain flashing across his place for a split second. His previous glare intensified to hide it.
Alfred crossed his arms. "I was admiring my flag. Isn't it awesome? So much better than your piece of shit," The boy sneered, kicking the door further open to Arthur's disdain. The Englishman rolled his eyes, grabbing the box he had set down and made his way towards the door.
"I thought I taught you better than to speak so vulgarly." England walked past the younger man without so much as a glance, heading towards the waiting coach that would taken him to the docks. His ship was waiting only on him, awaiting the go-ahead to head home to England.
The sooner he was home, the sooner could begin the process of forgetting that his heart had shattered into a million pieces in his chest that rainy day when he had fallen to his knees in defeat.
America silently watched the other man make his way out of his life. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Why did he feel like crying? Pushing off the door, he followed after Arthur and stood by the coach as it was shut behind the older man.
"Arthur…." He murmured, placing his hands on the window pane of the carriage door. "….I'm not sorry for what I did."
England glanced at Alfred and scoffed, but remained quiet as the boy continued.
"…..I just need to know that…everything is going to be okay…" He murmured, tightening his grip on the window pane as he desperately pleaded for the older man to comfort him like he use to.
To tell him that the monsters in his closet weren't real.
To cuddle him close during a thunderstorm.
To hold his hand to keep him from floating away.
But none of these came. Arthur regarded Alfred with a blank stare, knocking on the roof of the carriage to alert the driver was ready to go.
"No."