A/N: Hello, I'm new in this fandom. This is my first Hetalia fanfiction. I don't know if I can write more, though…. And this is very very short. I hope you'll like it. Apologize for grammatical errors.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia characters.
Hurting His Feelings Again
by Yukitarina
Hurting his feelings again, America thought as he leaned his back on his chair and gazed on the table. He was alone in the headquarters, thinking about his 10000th quarrel with England couple hours ago. It was always the same: They met, they threw cynical words to each other, they fought. How many years passed with such irritating moments? And why couldn't they stop even only for a day?
He pulled something from the inner pocket of his jacket. A blank paper and a pen. He hesitated for some time, then began writing.
Dear England,
I'm sorry about our quarrel. You have to know I'm doing that not in purpose, and try to understand that everytime we finish quarreling, there is remorse in my heart. If you think I hate you, you're wrong. Well, okay, sometimes I do hate you, but mostly I don't. I believe you feel the same way, too.
So, would you forgive me? I can't promise to stop quarreling you, though…. It's been two hundred years since we did that, and I doubt we will stop mocking each other. But once again, just remember that everytime I speak ill about you, I hate myself so much I want to kill myself with my own weapon.
Thanks for your understanding.
-America-
He stared at the paper, and shook his head quickly. There was no way he could give it to England. He kept staring at it until midnight came. He felt tired and extremely sleepy he rested his head on the table, hand still holding the letter. He slept too soundly, without dreaming.
-00-
The next day, England came the earliest, and startled seeing America slept in the meeting room. "You're still here?" He exhaled, looked at his former charge in irritation, as usual. He was about to step at the blackboard when he saw a piece of paper that loosely rested in America's hand. "Hm? What's this?" England sneered and took the letter. "A secret plan? Let's just see. Dear England, I'm sorry about—" He stopped.
Never ever in his wildest dream he thought America would say sorry, especially toward him.
England continued reading. Once he reached the final word, he re-read the letter more carefully, as if to make himself sure he wasn't imagining it.
He tried to fight back the emotion that filled his heart. He gazed on the sleeping America, with such painfulness he swore he wouldn't show when America was awake.
So you feel it too…? He whispered.
Very carefully, he returned the letter to America's hand, inhaled a deep breath, then continued walking to the blackboard to share his next plan about the confrontation with the Axis. But England's mind was somewhere else, to the time when America was still a child hiding in the bush with his cute head ballooned from it.
About fifteen minutes later, America opened his eyes. England sat at the corner, watching him steadily.
"Huh? You've arrived, England?" America yawned, lifted his head from the table and rubbed his eyes.
Then he realized he had forgotten to hide the letter. He jumped in terror, quickly put the letter inside his pocket. "You—you don't read it, don't you?" America asked, loud and scared. "You don't read it—"
"Read what?" England scowled. "Stop saying anything stupid."
America took a relieved breath. "Fiuhh, thank God." He reached a lunchbox from the chair next to him. "Do you want some hamburger?" He opened its cover, seized a fat hamburger, then began to eat. "I'm so hungry."
"Speaking of which, I bring lunchbox too," England, too, reached his lunchbox, opened it, and slide it on the table until it halted in front of America.
"Whoa? Sachertorte?" America gasped as he saw a slice of chocolate cake inside the lunchbox. "Did you buy it from Austria?"
"Nope." England suddenly looked embarrassed. "I made it myself."
"Ah… ahahaha," America laughed weakly.
"What's with that laughter?" snarled England. "I've made a lot of progress. Just try it."
"Okaaay …." The cake indeed looked delicious, but America's had enough experience with England's cooking that he didn't expect much. He did the right thing; a second after he ate the cake, he spat it out and said, "Damn! No progress at all! Tastes bad as usual!"
Silence for a while.
"You hate it then?" England asked with low voice.
America, who couldn't read the situation, said, "Still asking? I hate it so much! It doesn't resemble Austria's cooking at all!"
"Then I'll tell you," England stood up, walked fast and snatched America's hamburger.
"What—"
"I hate it as well, see," England threw the top bun of the hamburger on the table.
"Hey!"
"What's good with this… lettuce," he tossed the lettuce on the table. "Onion, beef, beef, beef, cheese, cheese, cheese, cucumber," he tossed every parts of the burger he mentioned. "What's good in it?!" He snapped. "You know, America? I hate it. I hate hamburger so much I have the desire to kill myself with my own weapon everytime I see it!" He tossed the last bun.
America startled as he heard England's last sentence, and as he saw tears glistened in England's bright green eyes.
"England …," he said quietly after a while. "You read the letter, don't you…?"
"Does it make any difference if I read it?" England's voice broke on the last word.
He stepped back at his chair at the corner, sat, and bowed.
The long silence that followed was too hard to bear.
"We wouldn't be like before, would we?" England whispered, at last.
America only gazed on him. Just exactly the same as when England cornered him with his weapon in the Revolutionary War, he couldn't say a word.
Feeling a deep ache in his heart, and thinking that he had to do something to hush it away, America began to lift up the parts of his hamburger, so slowly, and unified it again until it became the hamburger it used to be. He stared at it before taking a bite.
"You still dare to eat it?" England asked quietly.
"Why not?" America answered with the same quiet voice. "You didn't throw it on the floor. And it still tastes good."
England smiled slightly. He inhaled, leaned forward to seize his own lunchbox, then took a bite of Sachertorte he has made. He frowned, his chest started to feel heavy again, his throat tightened. "It indeed tastes bad," he said bitterly.
Silence again. America finished eating his hamburger in just a minute, but with the ache in his throat, it took a lot of effort than usual. He did his best not to look at England's direction. He couldn't bear to see him right now. He doubted he'd ever could. His arrogance was the only thing which saved him a lot from guilt, remorse, and sadness.
He knew, at this moment, England's thought was exactly the same with his.
We used to care about each other. Even now, we still care about each other.
Then why we always hurt each other…?
Thinking that he couldn't take this silence anymore, England stood up. He stepped at the door. He was about to turn the knob, but he had an urge to turned his head and gazed on the silent-America, with the greater pain than before.
England hesitated for some minutes. At last, he rested his hand on America's shoulder.
He didn't say anything. After clapping America's shoulder softly, he turned, opened the door, and left.
America was all alone.
He inhaled, took the letter from his pocket, then re-read it. He was really ashamed. As much as he was sorry, he didn't want England to know his true feeling. Everything ruined up right now.
He was about to fold the letter again when he saw a glimpse of writing that wasn't his own. Frowned, he read it carefully.
Dear America,
I know. I feel the same way.
I'm sorry too. I wish we could be the same as before. I wish I could turn back the time. I wish we could be brothers again.
But then, why do I expect that? It's not right for me to expect us to be brothers again. I don't need to expect that….
… because we're still brothers, no matter what. No matter how hard you deny it. No matter how hard I deny it.
Maybe we're quarreling everyday, but it doesn't change the fact that we're still brothers who care about each other. Unless, why we feel sorry about it?
America, I don't hate you. I never do.
I hate myself for letting you go. Maybe I indeed didn't do much for you.
I'm sorry.
-England-
America folded back the letter and kept it in his pocket. He pushed away the tears in his eyes.
England, he whispered. You have done a lot, you know.
Outside, on the other side of the wall, England crouched and rested his head on his knees, crying as well.
-end-