"All of us failed to match our dreams of perfection. So I rate us on the basis ofoursplendidfailureto do the impossible."

- William Faulkner

Sometimes it was just too bloody hard to even try and be a hero. To try and be cheerful, upbeat, happy, joyful, jovial, to even smile. And Alfred F. Jones knew this better than anyone.

He often had the other nations mad at him for his personality. He knew full well that he could be very in-your-face, and the other, older, more (in their minds) mature countries hated that about him. What they didn't understand, though, was that Alfred had to be like that. If he lost that attitude, that sort of personality, he would barely be recognizable to the others. His personality, his buoyancy, was no more than a mask, a necessary farce he performed to hide behind, to keep others at a distance. He may have been young, but Alfred was haunted. He was a failure, completely and entirely a failure.

He didn't think that any other country had the same kind of blood on their hands as him. They were older, they had fought in more wars, but not a one of them had the blood as concentrated. America was a country born out of conflict and seemingly always embroiled in yet another of an endless string of wars, and Alfred suffered for it. He suffered more than he would let anyone know.

They all thought he had a hero complex, and, if he was honest, they were right. But none of them knew why he had that hero complex. It was a cycle he was stuck in, one that was destroying him. He was determined to be the hero, to prove himself, and he failed, always failed, making the need to be a hero, actually, properly, succeed at being a hero, made the hero complex that much worse. He was stuck in the cycle, and there was no escape. He knew it, even if he didn't quite dare face it.

All countries had demons, monsters, but most were brave enough, or old enough, enough removed from the cause of those demons, to face them. Alfred was still all but a child. He couldn't face his demons, and he had low periods. He always lived in a slump, but he was usually able to put on his mask, his brave face, and cope, but sometimes he just couldn't.

Normally, he would avoid everyone when in a low period, but a world conference had been called, in Washington, D.C. of all places, and he couldn't avoid attending. If it had been out of country he might have managed to get out of it, but as the meeting was his own capital, he had to go. There was no finagling his way out of it.

All the invited countries were present, seated around the almost farcically large table. Well, all bar one.

"Where is that git?" Arthur growled, annoyed.

"That arschloch better show up," Ludwig muttered under his breath so that no one would hear.

The various personifications were getting irritable and impatient, when finally one of the heavy wood doors to the meeting hall opened and a blue-eyed blond slunk in. Alfred had his head down, refusing to make eye contact with anyone, and he quickly headed to his seat and fell into it.

Everyone was staring at him, wondering what had happened to the bubbly American. Arthur even went as far to lightly touch him on the shoulder.

"You all right, luv?"

Alfred looked at him and blue eyes met green ones.

It was raining. Of course it was raining. It was a dramatic sort of rainfall, but Alfred could only see it as ominous, a sign. What of, he wasn't entirely sure, but he felt it in his bones that something big was going to happen.

"Sir?" came a voice behind him, and Alfred turned to see one of his men, a blacksmith named Bailey, standing there, knuckles white as he tightly gripped his musket. "The regulars. They're here." He pointed off to one side.

Alfred followed the line made by the pointing, and saw on a nearby hill the familiar bright red coats of the British army they were fighting. Around him he heard the voices of the colonists and militiamen he had come to know over the time he had spent fighting for his freedom alongside them.

"Rumor says that some big shot came over from England to try and negotiate."

"Wonder if he's out there."

"Heard he's directly representing the king."

Alfred's heart twisted. "Iggy," he breathed.

"What was that, sir?" Bailey asked.

"Just…" my former big brother "…someone I used to know."

"Very well, sir."

Soon it was time for the rebel soldiers, Alfred's soldiers, to move out, to face the English troops, those fighting for the country that Alfred wanted so desperately to be free from. The personification of the almost-nation of America was all but positive that Arthur was out there. And, if he was honest, Alfred wasn't sure how he would react were he to see Arthur. He wanted to believe that the fire and will for independence would remain—after all, Arthur had done him many wrongs—but there was always the threat that at the sight of the big brother he had adored, Alfred would break down.

The troops lined up facing each other, Alfred in the front, as was his tendency. He was a nation, he couldn't be killed—at least, he was pretty sure of that—and this whole war was his fault. The least he could do was be in the front. He stood there, nerves increased tenfold by the thought that Arthur could be there, clutching his musket tightly to stop the shaking of his hands.

A blond man walked to the front of the British lines, and Alfred's heart skipped a beat. Those brilliant green eyes under ridiculously thick eyebrows were unmistakable, and Alfred was sure anyway that he would recognize Arthur anywhere.

For a moment no one moved, then, with a look of sheer rage on his face, Arthur charged at Alfred. The troops behind the blue-coated man all aimed their guns at the Brit, who had caught Alfred's musket with his own bayonet, sending the weapon flying from Alfred's grasp.

Alfred stared at Arthur, fear and desperation on his face to match the anger on Arthur's. Then the expression slip from Arthur's face and he fell to his knees in the mud.

…he had never imagined that Arthur would be the one to break down.

The empire, the strong nation, was on his knees in the mud, sobbing at the feet of his colony and little brother.

Alfred turned, and with a quick shouted order, sent his men off. The British troops were still standing there, but Alfred could do nothing about them, only pray they wouldn't attack.

"Arthur?" he asked softly.

Arthur's head snapped up and he glared at Alfred through red-rimmed eyes. "Go," he snapped. "You wanted your freedom. Well, now you've got it. Go."

Arthur was taken aback by the sheer amount of pain in Alfred's eyes. He always thought of the younger nation, his little brother even after all these years of separation, as a happy country. After all, thousands of people, Arthur's own, as well as those belonging to many of the other nations, had flocked to Alfred in search of happiness and prosperity. Alfred had always represented not just the American dream, but the human dream.

Although, now that he really thought about it, Alfred's path had not always been an easy one. Arthur of all people should know that Alfred was made the nation he was by conflict, and he remembered the many times he had received letters or telephone calls, once that technology became prominent, from Alfred, the younger country in some sort of pain or another.

The worst he could remember was in, oh, around the end of 1860, he thought (all the years started blurring together when you had lived as long as Arthur had), when he had popped over to Alfred's for a surprise Christmas visit, and had been shocked to find the other country lying in pain on the floor of his parlor, unable even to move. Concerned, he had asked Alfred what was wrong, and the American had just managed to say, in a voice made hoarse from screaming in pain, "they're leaving."

It had taken him a while to realize what Alfred had meant, taken him until the Confederate States of America and the United States of America declared a civil war. Alfred had been all but useless for years, until the states who had left came back, leaving his boss and the states remaining to him to run the country. The other nations had met several of Alfred's states in those years, as Alfred was in no shape to attend world conferences and sent states in his stead.

And, Arthur reminded himself, Alfred just had to get involved in basically every single bloody war on the planet, insisting that he was the hero and that that was what heroes did.

Arthur made an unintentional sound of amusement. Hero. Alfred was some hero. Sure, America won almost every war it was involved in (the War of 1812 was still a point of contention between the two, and ask Alfred about the end results of Vietnam—not the war itself, just the end results—and one was likely to get something thrown at his head), but he relied on his people and states to do all the dirty work, insisting that heroes gave orders. True heroes got in there and did all the work themselves.

"What exactly is so funny?" Ludwig demanded, irritated that they still had not started the meeting.

"Nothing," Arthur murmured. He turned towards Alfred to ask if he was ready to start the meeting, and was greeted by a surprisingly cold death glare, almost as if the American had guessed what he was thinking.

"Ludwig can start," Alfred mumbled, dropping his head onto his arms, which were folded on the table. He couldn't wait for the meeting to start, less because he actually wanted to sit through it and more because he couldn't wait for it to be over.

"I think the раздражающий hero better start, да?" Ivan said, a simple, and common, enough jibe at Alfred, who he still didn't always get along with.

Normally Alfred just made a Communist jibe back and continued on his way, but this time the reaction was far different. Alfred stood suddenly, his chair tipping over backwards. The sound of it striking the floor echoed loudly in the silent room. He said something to Ivan, swearing by the sound of it, in some language that no one recognized stormed out of the room. Everyone stared after him.

Alfred left the building and headed off at a dead run, people jumping out of his way. Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them back and went towards the Mall. The grassy stretch in the middle of the city was always a relaxing place for him to hang out, and he knew he was less likely to be followed there. The others, Arthur, most likely, would try the apartment he kept in Washington, D.C., but he didn't think that anyone would think to check in the Mall.

Once he was there he found a large oak tree and sat against it, finally letting the tears fall. He knew he had to be quite a sight—an apparent teenager, maybe a young adult, in a nice business suit sitting on the ground and sobbing—but he didn't care. He didn't care what people thought of him, he just needed to let everything out. Ivan's taunt had hurt more than he dared let on, more the mocking emphasis on the word hero than the insult used before it. He had used words from a language he barely spoke anymore—he didn't even remember which one it was. Sioux, maybe, or possibly Apache, or there was a slight chance of it being the language of the Blackfoot tribe. Regardless of which tribe it belonged to, it was one of the many languages he had spoken before being taken in by England as a young child and taught his language. But the words had come to him as if he had never stopped speaking the language they had come from. They were words that, if he repeated them in English, would probably sound ridiculous and would make hardly any sense, but in their language of origin they were one of the worst insults, the worst curses, that he knew.

Alfred was crying harder now, sobs making his entire body shake as the thoughts of how he was just a failure, not even worthy to be a country, let alone the superpower he had somehow become flooded through him. He had failed, over and over again, to be a hero. God, he hated himself.

"Alfred?"

The voice calling his name was soft, barely audible, but Alfred had had years of listening for it. He might not have always been the nicest to his brother, but he had always been able to see Matthew, and despite how he acted, he would do pretty much anything for his twin.

"Alfred?" Matthew said again. "What's wrong?" He knelt beside the American and watched him for a minute, then gently wrapped his arms around Alfred, pulling him close. He let his American twin cry into his shoulder for a few minutes, knowing instinctively that Alfred needed that. Years of just watching people with not being noticed had trained Matthew in reading people and emotions, and he knew his twin well enough to know what he needed anyway.

"What's wrong?" Matthew murmured, still holding Alfred.

"I hate myself," Alfred blubbed.

That took Matthew aback. Of all the things he would have thought Alfred would have said, that wasn't high on the list. To be honest, it wasn't even on the list at all.

"Why…why do you hate yourself?" Matthew asked, his voice softer than usual.

"Because I try so hard to be a hero and I fail."

The stark, plain answer shocked Matthew even more. With very few exceptions—the war or two he had fought against the other—he had always been very close to Alfred, and his twin had always…

"You've always been my hero," Matthew whispered in Alfred's ear. "Always."

Historical notes:

Alfred is informed that "the regulars" are coming in the Revolutionary War flashback because up until the end of the war colonists did not call themselves American; they were fighting for a separation from Britain, but they still called themselves British, as the land they lived on still belonged to the British empire, and, unlike some other English colonies, America was not a country until after winning independence. Therefore, they would not have said that the British were there, as they were British themselves. The Founding Fathers, had America lost the war and not gained independence, would have likely been tried and hung as traitors.

The mention of Alfred in extreme pain around the end of 1860 is a reference to the secession of eleven Southern states after Abraham Lincoln was elected President, the first of which was South Carolina on December 20th, 1860. (I have a headcanon that because America [the country] is made up of the individual states, they are also an important part of Alfred himself, and having them leave him [especially those that were part of the Thirteen Colonies, which does include South Carolina] would be like tearing himself in half. This is different than colonies leaving a country because counties annex or take over colonies, and the country itself still stands regardless of the state of the colony, as the colonies only help build an empire, but Alfred is composed of his states.)

Students, at least in America, are generally taught that the War of 1812, fought between America and England (although Canada was also involved, but that is irrelevant to this story), was a draw, as both sides claimed victory. America was losing for most of the war, but the English left America to fight Napoleon, so they never technically one. I imagine that Alfred and Arthur would still fight about who won, especially when drunk.

The Vietnam War, while technically a war between North and South Vietnam, was also a sort of proxy war between America (the free South Vietnam) and Russia (the Communist North Vietnam). America entered the war in around 1965, and American troops were pulled out in 1972, after which North Vietnam took over South Vietnam, resulting in what became more or less a loss for the Americans.

Translations:

Arschloch: Asshole (German)

Раздражающий: Annoying (Russian)

Да: Yes (Russian)