Something to Believe
A.N: Another song challenge given to me by SonicWinchester. This time Believe by The Bravery. This should be better than my last song fic… since admittedly, I hated the last song… Human names used due to the setting of the story.
The bar was a dive, a relic of a time long past, when smoke hung heavy in the air, the scent lingering years after smoking indoors was banned. America, known as Alfred Jones to those who didn't know about the personifications, still remembered those days, having been a regular since it was founded.
"Hey Ame- Alfred." An accented voice slurred from the vicinity of the bar.
"I see you started without me, Artie." America replied, sitting down next to him.
They sat in silence for a bit, America with a glass of whiskey, and Britain with a bourbon.
"You know who I was thinking about recently?" Britain asked, holding his glass up to the light.
"Who?" America asked, slightly dreading the answer.
"Confederate America. You know, your little brother." Britain slurred, tipping the glass back.
America stiffened, he had been dreading this conversation. Britain sometimes brought it up when drinking, the "little brother" he didn't get to raise.
"Yeah, Johnny… I don't know where I went wrong with him… he was a good kid at first… but he… changed. He discovered how lucrative cotton was, and got greedy…" he looks around. "Let's move someplace where people won't overhear, I don't want people getting the wrong idea…"
They moved to a booth in a dimly lit corner, away from listening ears.
"Britain, understand this. I loved Johnny. I really did, but the slavery! How he could condone that… what he did to those people… it just wasn't right... we tried to make it die out without violence at first, but they kept finding ways around it, and then there was the whole Texas issue…" as he said this, his glasses slid down his nose.
"Looks like Texas wants to secede…" Britain laughs.
"Yeah… they can't make up their mind… they secede from Mexico, and become a nation, and then they turn around and ask to become a part of me… then now they want out. Back to what I was saying. Johnny really wanted slavery, but most of the North, my part of the country, was against it. I really tried to get him to change his mind, but he did everything in his power to hold on to slavery. But finally, it became too much, and… well, you know what happens next." America sighs, tossing back the rest of his drink.
"You know, I kinda felt the same way when you declared your independence… the betrayal, the sadness of killing your brother's people, hearing your men cry out as they fall… It was hell, really." Britain seems surprised his glass is empty.
"Dude… I felt the pain from both sides… Like North Italy, I am- was… the main face of America, so what the south felt, North felt too…" America replies, signaling the bartender for another round.
"So… did he? You know…" Britain asks, looking everywhere but at America.
"No… he's still around… but locked up. He was deemed criminally insane by the government. Like Prussia, as long as people call themselves his citizens, and claim the culture as theirs, he will always remain around..." America frowns.
"You don't seem happy about this America."
"I wish things were different… that he would stop blaming me for the war… I didn't want to fight him, just like how I didn't want to fight you, but it was a matter of right and wrong, so I had to…"
"Hey Barkeep! Another drink!" America yells.
"Alfred, how many times have I told you not to call me that? It makes me feel like I am in the Wild West…" the barkeeper shouted back, pouring another whiskey.
"Ah, good ol' Jack… good for drinking away your sins…" America says, taking a sip.
"I'll drink to that." Britain says, toasting.
They lapsed into silence for a bit.
"I still think there was something I could have done to prevent the war… maybe if I had listened to Mr. Clay, things wouldn't have ended up like they did…"
"How were you to know the chronic Presidential wannabe would be right? Stop blaming yourself and drink… you'll feel better." Britain slurs, the bourbon finally getting to him fully.
"Nah… I think I will pass… I think I am going home now…" America pays his tab and leaves, leaving a drunk Britain in a dark booth.
America is silent for once in the back of the taxi, not chatting up a storm for once.
'Johnny…'
The next day found America behind the wheel of a black mustang convertible.
"Hey Mr. America. Back again?" The man at the gate asks.
"Yeah…" America replies, parking the car.
He walks the familiar hallways, stopping in front of a familiar door.
A young man sits in a window seat of the plain room, auburn hair, tinted glasses hiding his deep brown eyes, his tan skin faded from prolonged time without sunlight.
"Hey Johnny…"