Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

Warning: BL, angst, slight AU, fluff

Pairing: US x GB

Me: Yay! Time for some Civil War angst~!

England: :rolls eyes: You're only doing this because you were intrigued by the possible psychological damage America might have gotten from that war, you bloody sadist.

Me: …And to put in some fluff~!

America: On with the story, please!

Me: Oh, yeah~! Happy Birthday, America~! 8D

England: :mutters:

"Why the bloody hell do your parties have to be so big and messy!" Arthur exclaimed in exasperation. Alfred chuckled good-naturedly. His birthday had long since been over and the Englishman had volunteered (without consent or asking, of course~) to assist in the clean up.

"'Cause I know too many people," Alfred replied cheerfully, causing his companion to sigh. The two lapsed into silence as they finished cleaning up the living room. When that was done, they walked toward the kitchen. Alfred was feeling exceptionally nice that day, so he allowed Arthur to set the pace for them.

Apparently, there was a little bit of clutter in the hallway, too, since the blond Briton tripped over something. He cursed under his breath while Alfred went to inspect what he had stumbled on. His sapphire eyes darkened a little when he sighted it and picked the object up.

"Alfred? What's—" Arthur wasn't able to finish that sentence when he also saw what he had tripped on. It was a silver pin in the shape of the Confederate symbol. The painful memories it carried practically forced them to relive that awful time period of America's Civil War.

England paced around in his room, his bushy brows furrowed in worry. Although he had tried to convince himself that America was fine, that he obviously took the hint, his instincts were telling him otherwise. Something was going very wrong in his former-colony's homeland. Frustrated, England pulled on his jacket and went into town.

America had always sent him letters, had been for many, many years. The Englishman had never opened them, merely burned most of them. Yet, the younger nation had not sent him a letter for a few weeks by then.

England shook his head. It was not the time to feel guilty. He asked around casually, of course. Although the details were sketchy at best, the news had only one thing in common: America was in the midst of a bloody civil war. It wasn't one like France's; instead the states in America had virtually split in half with a president on each side. That news almost made England's heart stop.

Without thinking, he had gone home and packed only the essentials. Hefting his pack, England took the first boat setting sail for America.

Naturally it took days to finally reach America. Once the shores of the country had greeted their eyes, he heard the faint sounds of battle carried by the wind. It was horrible. People were screaming, gunshots sounded like thunder, and all the while England could only think: is America all right?

The captain was steering the boat away from the battleground, trying to find a safe place for them to dock. It took them all the way to the shores of the Union's capitol, which was good for England. He had all ready decided to just pay a visit to the capitol, since that was the most likely place America would be.

Once they had safely docked, England grabbed his stuff and walked calmly off of the ship. His instincts told him to RUN over to America, but he knew that he couldn't. Too many things were holding him back, namely himself.

When he reached the White House, the nation's president, a man named Lincoln if his memory was correct, met him. The man had a grave and sullen expression on his face, despite the pleasant smile he gave to the older nation.

"I was expecting you," Lincoln told him as he motioned for England to follow him. More than a little apprehensive, the older nation could do nothing but obey. They walked through the halls in silence and England couldn't help but notice the added security.

Eventually, they stopped at a room that was right next to the president's. England's nerves were on fire and his heart was pounding as Lincoln opened the door. He wasn't…expecting the sight that he saw.

The room melted into nothingness as his emerald eyes fixed on the blond male in the chair. His sapphire eyes were sightless and had none of their usual shine. The ashy-blond locks were dull. America looked like the living dead as he stared down at the ground.

England chocked back a sob as he ran toward the broken country. Lincoln had his head low, his eyes guilty.

"I'm sorry…you had to see him like this," the man whispered into the silence, "I tried to keep them from fighting, but it was inevitable. Still…I'm going to finish this as soon as I can. You…can stay as long as you like."

The Englishman just nodded, not paying the slightest attention to the door closing. Still, in the silence, he freely let the tears roll down his cheeks. How could that have happened to his America?

For weeks the Englishman had stayed in the White House. He stayed by America's side, too worried about what the war would do to his psyche. It had been some time since Sherman's March, so long since the victory at Gettysburg, and yet America still looked like a broken man.

One day, he was bringing lunch for himself and America (just in case he somehow woke up from his stupor). England had been having sleepless nights for a while and he let loose a huge yawn. Upon entering America's room, he couldn't help but sigh. He closed the door with his foot and walked over to the taller man's side.

"Damn it, you bloody fool. Don't you know how much you're worrying me?" England whispered harshly, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. He hated seeing the young man so…so empty and broken. The blond Briton wouldn't admit it out loud, but he missed the rambunctious and energetic young man he knew and loved.

Fingers softly brushed away his tears. England looked up, surprised by the contact. His emerald eyes widened as he saw tired sapphire eyes lock with his own. The Englishman chocked on a sob as he placed the tray somewhere safe and embraced the young American.

It was only hours later that England found out that the Confederates had surrendered.

Alfred shook his head and put the pin in his pocket. He turned to Arthur and embraced the shorter man, knowing without looking that the older nation had been crying. The young American also knew how much it had hurt the Englishman's heart knowing that there was nothing he could do to help.

"It's in the past," he told his partner as he rested his head on dirty blond locks. Alfred felt Arthur nod, but neither of them were able to talk. Eventually, he gently pushed the smaller man away and brushed the tears away, a soft smile on Alfred's face. "It wasn't your fault, either."

Arthur only nodded, not really trusting his voice at that moment. The young American still had that soft smile on his face as he leaned down to plant a chaste kiss on the other's lips. It was enough to reassure Arthur that things were fine and that Alfred's psyche wasn't being torn in half.

"Come on, let's finish cleaning up," Alfred said with a grin. Arthur rolled his eyes, secretly marveling at how the young man could banish a dark mood with a mere grin.

"Oh, all right. It's still your own bloody fault your house is such a mess on your birthday."

"Love you, too, Arthur~!"

"…Git."

End

Yay~! Now I have something for the Fourth~! XD Anyway, hoped you guys enjoyed it. :3 It's kinda short on here, so I'm sorry for that. T~T Hopefully, I'll be contributing more to US x UK~! :D So, for now, enjoy the random one-shots I'll be putting up. xD