I do not own Hetalia.
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America is often being labeled as an idiot, stupid, and not one to use his brains and think. In a sense, it's true. This is because thinking is hard, it's difficult, it's challenging—thinking is an arduous activity that strains his skull. It's just a simple brain process but it's deadly in a sense. Thinking about something makes him think about another and another and another until it leads to things that he doesn't want to reflect on. It's like a spider web, a network of silken thread that links thought with another thought and a few more thoughts. Thinking is like opening an old and venerable treasure box and finding things that he has hidden away for a reason. Thinking is never healthy. So when people say that he never thinks, America will shrug it off with an idiotic smile.
But sometimes, his mind acts sadistically against his will and begins to wander to places that slowly yet steadily slaughters his self-esteem until he is tragically reduced to an empty shell.
Self-loathing is when one extremely dislikes and hates himself and has a prejudiced against his own persona that results to anger and hostility. In a lot of occasions, it manifests wallowing in misery.
Depression is when one experiences a state of low mood and aversion to activities that affects his thoughts, behavior, tendencies, feelings and sense of well-being. At times, it causes severe dejection.
Trust issues is when one is unwilling to put faith on other people due to betrayal and personal reasons. More often than not, it interferes with a lot of relationship.
Anxiety is when one feels worried, nervous, and uneasy about something that is happening or may happen in the future. Sometimes, it even instills fear.
Paranoia is when one has a strong negative belief about people and their actions without any evidence or justifications. Oftentimes, it is nothing but delusions.
When these emotional problems are to merge and incorporate as one, the outcome will be America. Fortunately, he has mastered the façade to mask it and effectively put it out of everyone's sight.
It's not because he's against the idea of worrying someone that he decides to fake his expressions and his outward nature. It's just that he knows that no one will worry, no one will care, no one will sincerely take his time to give America an attention. He already has a reputation bad enough that the mere mention of his name factors other people to cringe in disgust, what more if they find out that he's practically plunging himself in a deep and dark pool of self-pity. No one will like someone as gloomy and fatalistic as him.
Actually, as he thinks back, no one still likes him even in front of all the exteriors and presentations that he is so used to show in public. It's a wide known fact that a lot of nations hate him and America can make an endless list of why. He's not that ignorant, he's also not that negligent to his sins. He has a lot of faults and wrongdoings and a lot of imperfections that had put others in pain. He has several defects and has made plenty of offense and even though they're already in the past, the guilt is still overflowing and generating into a massive and disgracing regret. He feels awful that, even though all he did back then were for the better, he is completely blameworthy and indefensible. He was wrong, and now he's paying the price in triple amount. He just can't help but to wallow in misery.
Life is not always about rainbows and sunshine. Life, for America, is about surviving. It's about getting through every day trying to maximize the positive and minimize the negative while holding on to the little sanity that's left of him. He never truly regards it as something valuable. Life, like many other things, comes and go. Sometimes, he just feels utterly and severely dejected.
His people have been a good diversion, they've been the instances that shift his mind from thinking that his life is just a worthless piece of crap. He views his people like a mother views her children, nurturing them and cultivating them. Even though he's constantly yet unintentionally being hurt with their careless actions and endeavors, he still cares for them from the depths of his heart. They have this kind of relationship that seems to be more of an obligation than a choice, but still, the devotion and commitment is there to keep their connection alive.
His fellow nations, however, are entirely different matter. The other nations are not his family, they don't have a nexus, they don't have a bond, they don't have a responsibility with each other. It's only all about choice—a decision to stay or leave. The other nations have their own people, their own children, their own family. They have their own life, so America is not surprised that they never stay.
He's not surprised, but that doesn't mean he accepts it wholeheartedly.
He has become attached to a few of his fellow nations before. He has been harboring feelings and sentiments that had grown naturally without him realizing it, without him permitting it. They were just his personal opinions about others, his impression on them and the conclusion he has formulated based on the attitude that they have shown him. Nevertheless, in the end, these feelings still instigated a fall on his self-importance.
He was once infatuated with England. The older nation, who had acted as his big brother despite his lack of comprehension on how to safe-keep a toddler as strong as America, had taken care of him with conscientious fondness and liking. That's why America felt attached. He'd been eager to please England, back then. He had continually wished for his approval and had craved for his praises and compliments. He had wanted England to stay with him.
But no matter how hard he had begged, no matter how many tears he had shed, no matter how sincere and desperate his promises to be a good boy had been, England had still left America with his first taste of a broken heart.
For now, the two of them are fine. They become allies, they become supporters, they become comrades, but still, the crack on America's heart has never been mended and from time to time, it aches like there's no tomorrow.
His moments with England is now his reference why he doesn't bother getting close to anyone anymore. The experience has given him a lot of lesson and a lot of baggage to contemplate and consider. It has given him the trepidation of relying and believing on someone and furnishing them with even a diminutive of his trust. So now, it's interfering on his relationship.
Another nation who he bears certain feelings for is Canada, his land brother. Canada, whose presence is fleeting and undetected unlike him, who's meek and polite and tends to go along with the flow notwithstanding how disadvantageous it is for him, who's life is as calm as a maple tree and as sweet as a maple syrup, makes America restless and unsettled.
Sometimes, America goes through the covetous feeling of envy toward Canada, but most of the time, he feels more anxious than ever. The other nations have respected him, have viewed him with high regards and have even apologized to him when they had offended him, so what if Canada, the only one who can tolerate him, realized their differences and leave him on his own account? What if Canada abandoned him, as well? Because as a matter of fact, Canada doesn't need America to be a stable nation, he doesn't need America to be happy and contented, and most importantly, he doesn't need America to live and survive.
Canada can be left alone and will still do better. He will still gain acceptance and applause better than America ever will, so time will surely come that Canada will see the convenience in simply deserting his idiotic counterpart. And this undoubtedly instills the fear in America.
Though that doesn't bring his miseries to end as of yet.
One thing that has grown inside America against his will and better judgement is the feeling of attraction for someone. They say that this is something that is totally and absolutely out of one's control. He agrees to it without a doubt.
He wants to reject it, he wants to deny it, he wants nothing to do with it. He aims to push it on the furthest side of his mind and lock it in the deepest part of his drawers to never see the light again. He desires to crush it with his fingers and just plainly end it. He yearns for it to just leave him the fuck alone.
But the odds were never in his favor.
Despite all his attempts to do otherwise, America still finds his gaze darting on the representative of South Italy and he hates every minute of it. They are never close and they never talk anything outside business and nations' duties, and yet, America still suffers an unrequited attraction for him. But that's just it—unrequited, one-sided, a feeling that will never be reciprocated for America knows that South Italy has only indifference to offer him.
America can tell this because of the way South Italy looks at him. He doesn't look at America like he looks at Spain, which is consideration and appreciation masked with heedful annoyance. He doesn't look at America like he looks at North Italy, which is great care and endearment disguised as shallow irritation and impatience. He doesn't even look at America like he looks at Germany, which is acknowledgement concealed as antagonism and indignation.
He looks at America like he's not looking at all. They're gazes meet, sure, but America can't see anything that's associated in returning his sentiments, not one bit. And that's most likely the conclusion of it. South Italy is not someone who will notice America. He won't be tolerable with America's imprudence and foolishness, much less with his lunacy. And South Italy will never see America the same way America sees South Italy.
He has concluded it, himself, but it still hurts his already shattered heart as if it's breaking all over again. The coldness and tepidity is surging through his heart and his mind and his body and it's like the mere bleakness of his broken heart is overtaking everything inside him and he just can't bring himself to smile or do anything at all.
He's not surprised, though, because these heartaches of his will never bloom without a seed, like a smoke that will never come out without a fire. He has these heartaches for reasons and they've just been trampled on and on and now they've grown so big that he can't measure it anymore. He doesn't know how many gauzes and bandages, how many wools of threads, and how many rolls of adhesive it will take to patch it, sew it and put it back together. He doesn't even know if it's fixable.
He feels terribly constricted as the figurative pain in his chest starts to turn into a literal one, like all his nerves are metamorphosing into one lethal lattice to compress and tighten on his heart. It leaves his toes and fingers numb and he can't bring himself to breathe soothingly without producing a sob.
It's like there's an unfathomable black hole where he had fallen and now he can't stand, he can't escape, he can't find any way out and truthfully speaking, he's not sure if he even wants to getaway because even if he's out, it's not that different. What will greet him, what will welcome him, what can appreciate him? He can only think of but nothingness, blankness, void—abyss.
Everywhere is abysmal as long as he's existing. And as long as he's existing, he'll keep having this thoughts, he'll keep on killing himself inside, little by little but with such intensity. If only he can erase his existence, then maybe he'll find peace, maybe his mind will quiet down, maybe his heart won't torture him like it's doing now. However, no, he can't. As such, he repeats and repeats and simply replays everything like a broken record. It's a continuous cycle, a never ending tragedy that has become the very essential part of America's life, whether he likes it or not.
America just wants to stop thinking and erase all these thoughts permanently. But that will be impossible, so instead, he'll drown himself with suffocating anguish and angst until he can't feel anything anymore. Just for today, just for one day, he won't wear his hero mask.
.
.
.
That decision is proven impossible, however, when a knock on the door wakes him from his reverie. He's very reluctant to face anyone at the moment for he seems to forget how to put his mask, but the frantic knocking doesn't cease even after a good few minutes. Finally, deciding to leave out his signature grin and opting for a simple easy-going smile, America unbolts the knob and swings the door open.
On the other side, South Italy greets him with a look of utter irritation, but when America only looks at him in confusion and disbelief, his surprise visitor speaks, "You bastard, stop looking at me during meetings like I already broke your heart. And if you won't ask me out, then I'll do it instead. Go with me for dinner, I'll cook."
America doesn't smile, but he feels genuinely happy for the first time since forever. It turns out all his thoughts about South Italy not liking him back are nothing but delusions.
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I'm accepting all forms of reaction, from calm and normal to bloody and trashy, just send me a review if you have some. Thanks a lot for checking it out!
A/N: I can't believe I wrote an angst, but I hope you see what I did there... Also, I can't help it, a tiny opportunity for a Romerica that I can't simply let pass, but I'm not sorry.