AmericaXReader
It's Revolutionary!
A Story Written by Dezie
Part 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or you... Mother Russia does
*smushsmushsmushsmush*
Your boots trudged through the heavy, muddy, forest floor.
God you hated the rain.
Dressed in your blue uniform, you were looking around for some more dead or wounded Redcoats. After the General had discovered that you were a girl, you were treated WAY differently. No one ever went out with you when you looked for enemies. All the General handed you was a rifle. You didn't know what kind it was, you were never an expert on guns.
On this hunt you had found one Redcoat, a dying boy who you sat with until he breathed his last breath. Your tears had dripped onto his cold face, and you couldn't stand it. That was the way that the General found out that you were a girl when your childhood best guy friend had been shot. Your wail was way too high pitched and immediately the whole entire American army, and a few of the British, knew that you weren't a boy. At that very moment you didn't care. You didn't even care when one of the biggest army-men had grabbed you buy the shoulders and lifted you up, carrying you away. You fought back, tears streaming down your cheeks and you could feel your face get puffy and red. If your friend was with you, he would call you a tomato. (no reference to Spain or Romano)
And then you would've socked him.
The thought of your friend distracted you from the present, and it wasn't until you heard the moaning of a man you were brought back to your senses.
You looked around wildly, tensing up. Your eyes widen and you reach for your gun, holding it in front of you as you stalk through the forest. You keep looking behind you until you notice a Redcoat up ahead lying down on his stomach. Slowing your pace, you slowly roll your foot from heel to toe, trying to make as little noise as possible. You draw closer and closer to the Redcoat, close enough to realize that this man is no longer breathing. This man is dead. And you are alone.
That is until you notice the man staring at you, his back against a tree.
You whip around and point the gun at his face before you realize the color of his coat. He was wearing a navy blue coat, same as you were.
He seems to be as surprised as you.
'Have you lost your mind?" He yelps, throwing his hands up in the air, before groaning again, clutching his arm against his stomach. Your eyes soften and you slowly begin to kneel down beside him, touching his shoulder lightly.
"What's wrong?" You ask him, coaxing him to move his arm so that you can see his stomach.
"The Redcoat over there tried to shoot me, but I took him down before he could have the chance." He explained, glancing back over at the dead man.
"You were very lucky," you murmur, stripping off his jacket, taking a look at his bullet wound through his light, long-sleeved white shirt. It was bleeding, and it looked as if one of his ribs was cracked. You were never a nurse, always a fighter. You would have to take him back to the Medical Tent.
"Thanks," he smiles, looking down at his wound for the first time. "Dangit," He muttered, cocking his head to the side to get a better look.
You place your hand on top of his rib, "does that hurt?"
He shakes his head, "nope."
"How about this?" You ask, putting your hand underneath the bloody scab.
The man slightly winced, "only a bit."
"Okay," you confirm, "Your ribs aren't broken. Be thankful for that." With a breath of relief he leans his head back against the tree. This was when you notice this boys hair color. Sandy... not to dark and not to light. And his eyes! They were so blue! You almost had to do a double take when you first made eye-contact with him.
You pat his knee and motion for him to try to stand up. You take his hand in yours and you slowly help him get to his feet. Once he was a little off the ground, he winced and fell against you, his face only inches from yours. He gives you an apologetic look and you glance away momentarily before returning his gaze.
"I hope this is alright," he says almost teasingly; despite his wound, he had a twinkle in his eye.
You roll your eyes and turn away, helping his back into his coat. As soon as it is buttoned back in then you take his wrist in your hand and put it around your shoulders, supporting his weight. You had done this multiple times on the Battlefield before; you were always more cut out to be out on the Front-line than back in the Medicine Tent.
As both your boots trudge through the forest, the boy's more dragging, you suddenly hear him pipe up.
"What's your favorite color?"
You stop for a second to glance at the boy's face, which was still just inches from your face.
"Excuse me?" You ask.
"Your favorite color," The boy presses, leaning closer to you.
You ponder over the thought for a few short seconds before you come to a conclusion.
"_," You mutter thoughtfully, "_ is my favorite color."
The boy seemed to relax at that. "My favorite color is red," He says almost dreamily although you didn't ask.
"How ironic," You say smiling.
The boy nods, and motions for you with his free hand to keep trudging along. You do the very thing.
As you walk on, the boy keeps asking you really strange questions. They wouldn't be considered strange back home of course, but you weren't home. You were on the Battlefield. Your heavy boots are making you tired, as well as the weight of the boy leaning on you. He shut up for a while, before he piped up, "I started it."
You stop walking and turn back to look into his deep blue eyes, "huh?"
"I started the fight with the Redcoat," the boy says nonchalantly, "I just thought you would want to know."
You raise your eyebrows at him, before you begin walking again. "We all have to make sacrifices for our country," you finally say.
"Yup," the boy chuckles, before asking another question. "Do you love America?"
You stop walking. "If all you want to do is talk, try holding it in until we see the American base. That way I won't have to keep stopping."
He smiles as you, "how about you just put me down? We can take some time and relax."
Relax... you haven't heard that word for a long long long time.
"This is war, kid," You say, "I wouldn't recommend taking it easy out here."
"Come on," He pleads, "just for a minute or two! I can definitively see the dark circles under your eyes, and theyre not really complementary to your skin tone and iris color! Plus were in American territory after all."
You stare at him.
Then with a deep sigh you nod and walk over towards a tall oak tree. You gently set his back against the tree, unwrapping his arm from around your shoulders and giving it back to the boy.
As soon as you were both settled down, the boy repeated his question, "Do you love America?"
"Why do you think I'm here?" You ask.
He smiles and shrugs, "oh I was just wondering. I've actually heard some rumors that America is actually a person, and he's fighting alongside us to win his independence from England."
You choke back your laughter, "and let me guess, England is a country too?"
The boy smiles a wide smile and nods excitedly, "yeah!"
You blink at him, apparently he doesn't understand sarcasm.
Things got awfully quiet after that, before the boy whispers, "Alfred."
"Huh?"
The boy extends his arm out towards you, "Alfred F. Jones."
"That's your name is it?" You ask.
Alfred nods with a huge grin on his face, "and you are...?"
You ponder over that fact... people had called you by your fake male name for such a long time... no one in the American Army really even knew, or cared, what your REAL name was. But, this kid seems nice enough. It was actually quite pleasant to have someone to talk to for once.
"_" You say your full name. First, middle, and last.
"I like it," Alfred concludes, "Is it Italian?"
You laugh, "how should I know?"
The boy shrugs, then glances around him, "i think we better start heading back to the Base."
You nod and stand up, extending your hand. When his skin touches yours, you think you feel a little spark of electricity shoot up from your hand, up your arm and into your spine. This traveled up throughout your body, until it reaches your eyes that are staring deep into Alfred F. Jones' sea blue orbs.
