Disclamer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers or any of its characters.
And a note: the content of this fanfiction portrays the beliefs and opinions of the characters, not the writer.
---
America's shoulders slammed painfully against the brick wall. Of course, that wasn't a voluntary action on his part. China had brought up his hand in a fist, drew back, and punched him squarely in the jaw. The punch didn't hurt too much, though; China was weak. The Opium War had taken quite a toll on him, America gathered, although China had begun to lose its strength decades before. Not like America knew of China's prior lack of stability—he really didn't care about the Asian nation's well-being. Standing before the country that once intimidated the entire Asian continent with a chilling fear centuries ago made him wonder how China had diminished into such a pitiful state. However, he had just enough force to push America to the wall. A small streak of blood colored America's lower lip. Smiling, he brought up a shaky hand and wiped the blood off with the back of his fingers.
"Is there a problem, China?"
Oh, how China glared daggers at America for speaking with such a belittling tone, with such a mocking smile.
"I believe you are well aware," China all but growled. With one hand clenched on the collar of America's shirt, he used his other to wrench out a crumpled mess of papers from his pocket. Most of them were torn and crinkled, but America knew China could care less.
"This," he hissed. "What is the meaning of this?"
America laughed bitterly, his shoulders and back heaving at each breath he took. "What, you can't read English as usual?"
And China replied with another blow to the head. One of his lenses cracked, and America swore a part of it had shattered off. And okay, he admitted that hurt a little, but not enough to stop him from lifting a hand to adjust his broken glasses. And it still wasn't enough to wipe that smile off of his face.
"You're blocking my people—only mine—"
"I'm glad to know you understand."
"This is an outrage. Why—"
"Certain circumstances, China."
His body shivering from pure anger—trying to restrain himself from throttling America at this instant. Instead he scoffed, choosing to ignore the weightless excuse that drawled out of America's sick, disgusting mouth. "Land of the free? That is nothing but the words of your fabricated self-praises. Everything that comes out your mouth is a lie."
America's eye twitched at that, and his too-wide smile faltered slightly. "It's better than the pile of rotting junk you call China."
"It may be," China's fists tightened upon the confession. It made him want to scream until his throat was raw, to tear at his own hair by the roots. Despite countless efforts, he knew he couldn't take care of his citizens—they all deserted him to go to America—America, this sick bastard who would cast them away--"But that's the reason why they're all sailing to you. And, despite knowing this, you pushed them away?"
America's eyelids lowered as he glanced to the side, avoiding China's murderous stare. He saw the former papers scattered across the ground—dirtied by the filth and dust from the streets—but America couldn't tell too clearly because the surrounding buildings cast too dark of a shadow in the alleyway they were in. China would have loved for that document to be piled in filth until the text was unrecognizable, but they both knew it was just a copy of the original papers. The original draft was kept safely in the hands up his superior. He almost felt like laughing at China's frustration, but didn't show it—he merely inhaled shakily and wet his bloodied lips. The cold, bitter air of the night stung his throat, but somehow it made America feel more alive.
"I'm not some fucking 'one-for-all' free place for all you other countries to take advantage," he contended. Then, his expression turned indifferent, with a crooked pull of his lips. "I can close off all of our coasts from immigrants. I'm not obligated to do all this, you know. I was being kind by letting the Chinese come to my land in the first place--you never take things for granted, China."
China chuckled bitterly after his small bout of wracking coughs. "You let all the dirty immigrants in because you think you are the hero?" He inched his face closer, until they were a breath apart. And the icy air that left America's throat throbbing slowly dissolved into a more dangerous heat. "Do not make me laugh. You let them come to you so they do all the fucked up jobs you give them—because they have nowhere else to go. For a life-risking job in a hell hole, you won't even offer them one measly dollar for their wages. I have seen what you had done to my people. They worked in your gold mines--and the white men booted them out. They risked what little they have left to finish your damned transcontinental railroad, and you selfishly cast them aside—even when hundreds of my men have died. They're treated lower than dirt!"
America's sneer seemed to fade away into something much uglier. "Fine, so your people are treated badly! You guys aren't the only ones!"
"The Chinese are the only ones unable to immigrate."
"That's because there are too many of your immigrants!" America shot back, in exasperation—or perhaps his frustration was just a façade, but he tried to make it as if it was his problem, not China's—so he can receive sympathy. He did want to help! He was a hero--that was his job. Everything was his problem, anyways. Because he was the strong nation, he was only one who would help everyone, and they always relied on him--"Have you ever thought of my population? You think I'll continue to let millions of people come to me every year? I have limits, China!"
China narrowed his eyes coldly. "I said to not speak any lies, America."
"--I don't lie," America managed.
China pushed back the craving urge to spit at the American. "Your love for, ah…your own kind knows no bounds, does it?"
"I—"
"I am sure you wouldn't be able to reject the people of Germany, France…" he paused, a smile reaching his gaunt face. "And most definitely not England. Am I right?"
America's teeth made a deafening, gritty noise as he clamped them together. He hoped China could hear the deep snarl from his throat so he would shut up.
"Don't play me for a fool. I know how you treat them in comparison to me. You are no hero, you're a twisted, manipulative—"
"Shut up!" And America had had enough, because he twisted China's hand off of his collar—a small cry erupted from the nation before him, but that didn't matter—and he rammed his other elbow into China's stomach. A burst of dull pain flashed white dots in China's vision as he stumbled and fell, landing on his back, then his head. A certain fury burned in his eyes, almost as strong as the rage in China's, but stemming from a different kind of raging beast. America took in a harsh breath, exhaled and inhaled a couple of times, until he dusted himself off and stood straight. The sneering grin plastered back onto his face, although the corners of his mouth twitched every so often.
"Don't you dare say that again, heathen," America whispered.
China breathed as he raised a hand to his head to wipe of the trickling blood. Heathen. Everyone calls him that now. And they would all say it with such disdain, as if they were spitting at a repulsive piece of trash.
"What a joke," America said, and he almost felt the hysterical laughter tearing at his stomach to get out. "Look at how pathetic you are. You're not even a shadow of what you once formerly were. You think that you; a weak, fallen empire—" he relished at the sight of China flinching at his words, which only fueled his gratifying feeling of domination—"—has any right to question my decisions?"
China tried to shake his head, but like a broken hinge--something stopped him from turning his head. Was it fear?
Maybe it was.
"I, along with all the other European countries, can crush you. One step out of the line and you'll be reduced to nothing. Your dirty immigrants will face a worse fate."
The biting spark that lit China's eyes earlier slowly diminished, while a sinking fear settled into those obsidian orbs instead. America's words scared him—because they were true. Forcing down the convulsive sensations burning at his throat from the wretched humiliation, China lowered his head, trying to escape from the presence of America—at least for a little while. He wanted the shadows to swallow his entire being. When China didn't reply, the American swiped his feet against the dirtied, soggy papers in China's direction. China didn't even lift a glance as they splattered all over his ragged clothes—the damp, dirty fabric clung to his skin, chilling him down to his bones. America's sneer widened, finding the filth so suitable for the Asian nation and savoring the immense power that surged within him.
"Although, you're still useful for us to ship our useless products to." He arched his back, reaching down to China's chin and roughly jerking his head up, so he can stare into America's eyes—so he can see and know exactly WHAT he's dealing with. He needed to understand exactly WHY he feared those dark, blue eyes. America laughed with a crazed fervor. "That's all you're ever good for, anyways. A backwards nation like you."
China merely replied in a cracked sob, closing his eyes. He wanted this to end. He wanted it to end now.
Probably out of distaste, America eventually released his hold on China when he continued to sob dryly. He briefly wiped his hands on the side of his pants, as if he had touched a dirty contamination. Dully, China finally glanced up to meet America's hardened eyes, and he nearly shrunk in—finally—irrational fear of America. Whatever anger was left in China's violent inner turmoil transformed into a much more humiliating emotion.
"So," America started after a long, haunting silence. His straining smile had returned. "We're cool about the whole immigration problem, right?"
When China didn't respond, a low snarl escaped America's lips as he stepped forward, his shoes nearly smashing at the uneven concrete. His voice was low, even, and pronounced. "Do we have an understanding?"
China opened his mouth—hesitated—then closed it. After a few seconds of chewing on his bottom lip, he looked down. "—Yes."
America's smile was disturbingly crooked, China thought. And that smile never wavered as he adjusted his glasses, the tips of his fingers barely grazing over the sharp, reflected edges of the broken lens. He then turned his heel and started his way out of the alleyway, his footsteps breaking the stagnant puddles as he left.
And China could only watch as America's figure grew smaller in the distance.
And he could only watch as his people returned to him with sullen eyes and a defeated soul.
---
A/N: No, America isn't this big of an asshole in my headcanon. Even if the Chinese Exclusion Act was a total dick move on his part. But I wouldn't think America and China would have had such a--direct confrontation over this matter. But I don't know. I was just kind of experimenting on how to write the two characters in this. It's probably the same reason to why this fanfiction's so short.
So yeah. The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882. It was only supposed to last for 10 years, but--hey. Racism stuck around after that, so the act kind of--stayed in place as well. It wasn't until during the WWII that the act was repealed. So--yeah. Way to go, U S and A.