Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, never will.
This is my first story so please be don't be mad c:
"Good-bye Alfred." The president of the United States watched his country wave at him.
"Bye, boss." Alfred smiled fondly and left the room.
The heavy oak door shut behind him, echoing in the grandeur of the deserted hall. Not wasting anytime, Alfred swiftly walked out of the White House, offering a few pleasantries to the guards that were patrolling the grounds.
Outside the gates that enclosed the White House, Alfred turned around one last time, admiring the tall, proud structure his citizens built. He marveled at how through the period of 212 years the White House had changed so much. From the beginning, it was just a wooden whitewashed house, but it grew to be a regal and cherished symbol of his country. Smiling, he contemplated on how similar his people were. The first settlers were dust covered, humbled by their hardships, yet still standing hopeful. Even when they were knocked down, they stood right back up and spat in the enemy's face. That spark of rebellion, fighting spirit, and pride never diminished. America just kept on plowing through. Praise the Lord for that. Some people might call it thickheadedness, Alfred thought, thinking about Russia and his snide comments, but Alfred preferred to call it optimism. That was the word to describe him and his people. Optimistic. That was how he had gotten this far.
Whistling now, Alfred strode to his car and drove to his house in D.C., munching on a burger. No matter what Iggy said, he did NOT have an addiction. He was just...supporting his industries! Alfred shook his head. That sounded lame, even to him.
Pulling up in his driveway, Alfred got out of his car and unlocked his front door. A dark, empty house greeted him. The atmosphere was cold and neglected. Flicking on the light switch, a puff of dust rose up. Ah well, he thought. After not visiting his D.C. home for a substantial amount of time, he supposed it would have started collecting dust. He just wished that it didn't remind him so much of the haunted house in the new video game Japan had sent him. Shuddering, Alfred made his way up to the attic, hearing the stairs creak. Pushing open the attic door, which groaned and complained, Alfred clambered through and stood, gazing at old relics of his past. They would have fetched an impressive price if Alfred needed money. Besides, the items were important to him. They were part of him.
Alfred knelt by a slightly faded Native American blanket. Holding it close, Alfred took a deep breath. It smelled of sunny days and cornmeal. Better days. Folding the cloth and gently putting it down, Alfred turned to his gun and weapons. Lincoln's beard, he had missed his babies. Proudly, he fingered his custom-made handgun that he used in New York during his Mafia phase. Ooh. That was a slightly embarrassing part of his life. Romano still had tapes of him talking in his Italian accent and using gangster slang. Only because of the fact that Venezanio was a peace and pasta loving man, Romano didn't use it against Alfred as blackmail. God bless North Italy. A larger and taller gun leaned against the attic wall. Alfred swallowed, guilt rising up in his throat and curling up there. It was the shotgun Alfred had used to become independent from England. Looking away, Alfred straightened up, knees protesting. That shotgun brought back too many painful memories. He knew that breaking free was the right thing to do, but it still hurt.
Heading towards his pictures, Alfred had to grin. There were photos from the hippies' phase. What had possessed him to dress like that? Garlands of peace signs circled his neck, and neon bright colors glared at him. Chuckling, Alfred buried that picture away into the deep recesses where hopefully no one would find them. Next, Alfred pulled out a picture of him with his trademark bomber jacket on, flashing a brilliant smile at the camera. He had an arm draped around a woman dressed similarly as him. An old fashioned airplane was in the background, yet clearly cherished. Amelia Earhart. Sighing, Alfred gazed at her. He would never forget her. She was the epitome of Americanism. Bright, brave, inspiring, and headstrong. Alfred had fallen hard for her loving but tough personality. And had hit rock bottom when she was declared missing. Rubbing his chest, Alfred knew that a part of him had sunk with her aircraft and would stay with her forever. What would she say if she saw today's aircraft? Fighter jets, airplanes that broke the sound barrier, and rockets. Alfred knew she would be taken by the concept of traveling into space. He was too. When the first spaceship left Earth, Alfred was there with the crowd, cheering with excitement. He remembered a little girl next to him counting along with the countdown. However, instead of counting down, she counted up. Her exact words were:
"But mister, it's better if you count up because the spaceship's goin' up, not down! And it's a new beginning so we should count up!" Alfred grinned fondly. By now, she should be married and with children already. It was a little depressing how hundreds of people's lives seemed to flow by him like sand falling in an hourglass.
No, it didn't do to dwell on thoughts like these, Alfred berated himself.
Rifling through his photo album, Alfred tenderly touched each one, lost in his memories. Vintage colors merged into bright, full color scenes. Old automobiles morphed into sturdy trucks. The fashions from each time period varied greatly too. Buildings changed. Classic pancake houses were replaced with business firms. A tailor's shop was turned into a skyscraper. Entire streets were razed, then rebuilt higher and higher. There were pictures of the Great Depression, of 9/11 and shootings. Of the wreckage after Hurricane Katrina. But there were also photos of the healing, of the moving on and strength. The evidence that American spirit never dwindled or lost faith even in the darkest of times. Reaching the end, Alfred snapped the cover shut, making a poof of leathery smelling air blow into his face.
Suddenly, Alfred beamed. Even though the entire fucking world had changed, he took solace in the fact that Americans would always be proud Americans.
"Ha! Take that world! You'll never change us! We're too fucking awesome for y'all, 'cause face it, we'd smoke all you bitches!" He whooped at the end, sounding more like an eagle's hunting cry.
Strutting out of the dim attic, Alfred hummed his anthem under his breath. Behind him, a painting of Ben Franklin chuckled, his glasses flashing in amusement.
"He never changes does he?"
MAGIC IS REAL YOU GITS. I JUST PROVED IT WITH AN TEENY TINY BIT OF A HARRY POTTER CROSSOVER.