Just Today
by: IceFlake 77
It was hard representing a country, especially if it was one of the most influential countries in the entire world. And he, more than anyone, could relate to that.
The kind of 'representing' he did wasn't like those delegates who went to U.N. meetings; no, the duty he fulfilled from day to day was much bigger, much more important, much more dangerous.
Everything he did and everything that happened to him affected his surroundings, his country; for better or for worse depended on him. He couldn't even get sick freely anymore, in fear of the economy crashing, like when he had developed a very high fever and immediately after that, when he switched his TV on, he discovered that Lehman Brothers had crashed.
Very often, he'd be invited to the White House to meet with whoever was the current president and his cabinet so they could discuss any project proposals the government had in mind. All major projects had to be reviewed with him before implementation and since he represented the civilian masses, he had the ultimate say over laws and such, giving him the right to veto anything that he thought wouldn't benefit nor discipline society. The rest of his time was just spent travelling around, visiting all fifty states that composed his territory.
On occasion, he'd stay in one particular state for weeks, or months at a time, reason being that he either liked the people there or he wanted to know more about the current situation in the region. He spent most of his time, though, in good ol' New York, New York.
Smiling, he looked around the public park from the bench he was seated on, whistling the tune of Frank Sinatra's 'New York, New York,' completely appropriate for the setting since it was where he was in at the moment. He glanced up at the sky and reminded himself yet again that he needed to quit smoking, and soon; air pollution was getting worse and worse by the day. Once he would, though, he was sure that his new boss could swiftly get rid of the problem.
He was suddenly knocked out of his thoughts once he felt something bounce against the back of his skull. Whipping his head round sharply, his eyes caught the sight of a bright, red, rubber ball on the ground behind him. Not really doing anything that important, and highly doubting that doing it would unexpectedly ignite a war between America and another country, he bent down and picked up the innocent object with one hand.
When he straightened up, a small boy who looked like he had been running around for quite a while due to his slightly sweaty face, flushed cheeks and panting breaths had approached him.
A few moments went by with neither of them saying anything until he knelt down in front of the kid so they would be face-to-face and asked him gently, "Is this yours?" He gestured toward the item in his hand.
Silently, the child nodded but didn't make a move to get it back.
"Well here—"
"Michael!" A woman cried out from somewhere off to the side, making both of them look toward her.
"I'm very sorry about my son," she apologized as she grabbed the boy by the wrist.
The child, in turn, started to protest and tried to yank himself out of her grip, shouting, "My ball! My ball!"
"I'm sorry, he's usually better-behaved than this," she apologized once again before facing Michael and sternly reprimanding him, "Keep quiet, Daddy won't like you doing that."
"Ah, it's okay, ma'am," he said as he handed her the ball. "I'm used to kids."
She thanked him before turning to her now-sobbing son. "Here, here, here's your ball…" She presented it to him, hoping it would calm him down.
True enough, the boy slowly but surely stopped crying and grabbed the ball, pressing it against his chest as if it were his most prized possession.
He then took his cue to leave as the mother bent down to whisper something into her son's ear while pointing at him; probably saying, 'I told you not to talk to strangers, didn't I?' or something along those lines.
What he didn't expect to hear, though, was Michael's voice call out, "Thank you, mister!"
And to that, he looked over his shoulder and answered, "You're welcome!"
Exiting the park, he let his mind take a journey to back when he was a bit younger (in country years, at least), back when he still had to finish the job of raising his even younger Filipino counterpart, Felipe.
Even when he went to the archipelago for the first time, he knew right away that he wanted to leave at least a small trace of America there. And after he saw how harsh Antonio, his parallel from Spain whom he had been fighting against at the time, was being on the colony, he knew that he had to move fast.
The years flew fast after he decided to give Antonio 20 million dollars as part of the Treaty of Paris (and it was nice of Francis to lend his house for that, he had to admit) in exchange for Felipe, thereby surrendering the Philippine archipelago as well. Before they knew it, Kiku, unfortunately, had brought World War II to Asia and since America was one of the Allied Forces, the tropical country was conscripted to join in the fight. The timing was completely disastrous since it was already the time when the U.S. had decided to put their plan for a Philippine commonwealth government in effect.
And after World War II, on July 4, 1946, if he remembered correctly, both he and Felipe lowered the American flag to make room for the Philippine one.
From a small child to an independent nation, that was the transformation he had witnessed. It made him feel old, much older than he already was, and maybe a little of what England must've been feeling as well when he let him be his own country.
He sighed in nostalgic angst before looking up at the restaurant that he had happened to stop in front of; and in big, chunky yellow-and-white letters that stood in contrast to its bright red background, McDonald's greeted him.
At that precise moment, he then made up his mind that only a Big Mac and a tall Coke could mend that small, broken part of his heart.
Hours later, it had long since struck midnight but people still surrounded him on the wide sidewalk, left and right, squeezing against him, brushing shoulders with him.
It was raining and mostly everyone had their umbrellas out; he didn't have one with him, he never did, but he didn't care. If he got a cold from walking underneath the starry, raining night sky, then so be it; he could take on those guys from the White House who'd get mad if he got sick any day, anyway.
Anyone would have thought of his day as rather normal, with a hint of bad luck, as shown by the heavy downpour he was incidentally caught in the middle of, but these kinds of days were the ones he cherished the most, and he knew that his partners from all over the world would be able to understand his feelings.
An extraordinary day from a civilian's eyes seemed to be the description for almost every day of his life. I mean, how many people can say that they go to the Oval Office perhaps every other day but don't even work there in the first place? Probably only him, but it was already too routine. He had gotten bored of it.
He considered normal days wherein he didn't have anything to do or anything to think of sacred. They were days when no pesky bodyguard would have to follow him around, ensuring his safety, as well as the country's; when he was free to do whatever he pleased; and when he could actually sit back, relax and just observe the fruits of his hard work over the centuries.
These were the days he treasured for their complete sense of normalcy.
Days when he didn't have to think of the consequences for all his actions.
When he didn't need to be the United States of America and he could just be himself.
These were days that he could just fade into the crowd, much like now, and pretend, even just for a minute, that he was just Alfred F. Jones.
Author's Notes:
1. Written on a complete whim (I guess?) so please forgive me for the utter failage of this.
2. OOC!Alfred is OOC. XD
3. Felipe Rizal isn't a canon nation-tan, he belongs to me and my friend. (Not the country he represents though.)
4. I don't own Hetalia~