Eyy, my first one-shot and story here! Awesome! I hope that you like it! Reviews, follows, and favs are greatly appreciated! o v o
x
✖HERO✖
America was called a hero.
Names are not always true.
"Ah, America, what are you doing here? This is a war council, for nations who are at war with the Axis powers."
The young nation smiled broadly at the four faces watching him within the small meeting room, optimism shining clear in his eyes. He'd only come to this place because of a recent attack from Japan that he'd rather not discuss. Even if he was still bothered by it (which he should be- it wasn't too long ago), he didn't seem to care. He'd remained as cheerful- if not more -as usual. However, there was something that had changed within the American. It wasn't that some part of him had gone- on the contrary, it was as if some part of him had... enlarged.
"Oh, so I am in the right place then!"
"Does that mean you're joining us, Amerique?" France questioned, looking slightly unsure.
"Yep!"
"But we've been asking you to join us since this war first started! Why on earth are you joining us now?"
"A simple thank you would be fine, you guys."
Having successfully brushed off the question, America began talking.
"Alright, everyone listen to me! We've got to focus on victory in Europe because our biggest threat is from the Germans. However, because of this, we'll start out in Italy, and I'll lead, of course."
So, America rambled on for a while, and everyone else seemed to hold on to every word he said. Almost everyone. It was England who had noticed something odd. America constantly said that he'd be the hero and he'd lead them with his "totally awesome plan" or whatever. Calling himself a hero was a normal thing for the young nation, but never so excessively.
"America, you speak of this plan you're going to lead us through. How exactly are you going to do that?"
"Well, if you'd all listen to me, that's how."
"Oh, sod off! How do you expect to lead if you don't even know what the devil you're doing!
"I know exactly what I'm doing, you just-"
"Just shut it! How dare you even open your mouth when you've not even a single idea in that thick skull of yours? You call yourself a hero, don't you? Are not heroes supposed to stand up for those who can not stand up for themselves? News flash, America, there are millions of innocent civilians being murdered as we speak, and they can do nothing about it! You just say these things because you want all eyes to be on you, cause that's just how you like, isn't it? Hell, the only reason you're up and functioning correctly is because of all the attention you're getting!"
That young nation's smile had disappeared, leaving behind only an expression that was unreadable. England had chosen the exact words to make him feel horrid, and he knew that. The poison in his normally calm voice made that clear.
"What... are you trying to say?"
"Isn't it obvious? You're no hero; you're just an attention whore!"
If England had said anything else, America did not hear it. Left vulnerable from Japan's attack, he was now a hastily stacked tower of emotions, just waiting to blow over and fall to the ground. England's words were just enough to do the job. As a result, America had become lost- lost within himself.
Heroes... are supposed to be loved... aren't they? Supposed to be... praised, doted upon. Supposed to be famous, and wanted.
His mind raced backwards, back to a time when this man called England was so fondly referred to as "daddy." Looking back on it now, it was as if he were a prize to be won. But he was wanted. The one who got him was proud of him, so it was fine. He'd seen other children, though, with mothers and fathers, who praised their children as well, but for different, far simpler reasons. He didn't like it, but he was still praised, so it was fine.
His mind raced ahead to a time where a child named Davie was referred to as a friend. He wanted a flower, and getting that flower was a kind thing to do, and heroes were kind, right? He found them, heaps of them. Davie didn't say anything. America didn't like it, but others were happy for him, so it was fine.
Forward, to a time where both he and England seemed to share a deep hatred for one another. Was he no longer loved? He hated it, but France still loved him, so it was fine.
Forward, to a month prior to now, as he felt the undying pain of his civilians as Pearl Harbor went down, and this "hero" could do nothing about it. That was most definitely not okay.
Forward once again, to just a week ago, as he decided to join the Allies, he stood at his first president's grave, reduced to an emotional wreck, trying desperately to hold himself together while he cried out these five words:
"Are you proud of me?"
Suddenly, his mind returned to the present. Glancing at the clock, he noticed that this rush of memories had only lasted for a second. However, the stinging feeling in his eyes told that his pain was worth far more.
The room was silent, the tensity in the air almost tangible.
"You know what, England?
The young nation smiled, tears threatening to spill from eyes the color of the sky.
"You may be right."
America was called a hero.
Names are not always true.