I don't own Alfred F. Jones or Hetalia, but the North Korea written here is my own.
It wasn't often that North Korea grappled with his feelings.
It simply wasn't worth his time to worry about such things. Either something was or it wasn't, and to him, there was no point in mulling things over excessively. It was far more worth his time to simply make a decision and stick with it, hoping it was the correct one. Whatever happened, happened, and there was little he could do in the face of fate. Most things and people weren't deserving of his thoughts or time anyway, so why bother? He had better things to do than waste precious time thinking about things and people he hated anyway.
It was for this reason exactly that he was struggling with his emotions now. Why couldn't he just make up his mind like he had so many times in the past? Why was America, of all people, the person his mind refused to be made up about?
He knew what his decision was supposed to be – that America was a stupid capitalist dog more worthy of a bullet to the head than five minutes of hearing North's thoughts. That was what it was supposed to be like, and North knew that that was the way it was best. It was best for him, and it was even best for America on some levels.
But there was still that annoying, nagging little thought in the back of his mind that refused to let things just be that way.
For some reason, the American deemed North Korea worthy of his time. For some reason, he paid him a special sort of attention that none of the other nations ever did. It wasn't a hard-eyed, cold sort of attention like he got from South and Japan, but of a more genuine sort of interest. America would track him down at meetings just to play with his hair, or tease him about communism, or jump out and try to scare him, and then laugh, but in a good natured way.
The American had mentioned several times wishing North would change.
"You're not happy are you?" he'd asked one day.
"Of course I'm happy. I live in a great country."
"I don't think you're happy," he'd insisted his brows drawing together in concern. "I don't see how you could be. I wish you'd change…"
"I'm not changing for anyone," North had shot back, his eyes narrowing. "Especially not you."
At that moment the American had looked considerably more disappointed than North had seen him look in a long time. "Then change for your brother. He still cares for you, you know? And so does China and Vietnam and even that Russian and…so do I."
"Well stop caring," came North's angry response, his voice rising. "I don't need your sympathy."
And he really wished he would just stop caring. His life would be so much less complicated. Less of trying to figure out why America cared so much. Why he cared if North was happy. Why he cared what sort of government he chose. Why he cared if North felt lonely or not.
They were supposed to hate each other. It was the age old battle between capitalism and communism, but America seemed to be breaking the unspoken law that capitalists and communists must hate each other.
It tore North apart inside. He wanted to hate him. He was supposed to hate him. But he found himself occasionally looking forward to the American's presence, if only so North could insult him in order to sate his boredom. But it still bothered him. He was looking forward to his worst enemy's presence. It was wrong, and he knew it. He must be a disgrace to his country, to his flag, and his Dear Leader, if he felt so alone that he was craving the attention of the one he hated most. He felt disgusted with himself.
He just wished America would go away and leave him alone.
It would be so much easier to hate him if America would just hate him back.