Sorry for historical inaccuracies...

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

OoOoOo

The day was finally here. Finally, finally the war had ended. For America, at least. He was at that point where he didn't care about much anymore. After all, his people hated him, hated his boss, hated the war. They didn't have any respect for the soldiers. They didn't have any national pride.

America could feel stabbing pains all over his body. Some of the pain was from actual wounds and scars he'd gotten while over at Vietnam. But most of it was from his peoples' anger and frustration. Throughout the war, he'd had to feel it, and it just got worse and worse. He'd taken to shooting himself when he was alone, in the arm, in the leg, in the shoulder, to feel something other than the pain of his people's protests and the pain of war in general. No one ever heard the gunshots, and he healed quickly enough. True, there were marks, but no one had ever questioned them.

He was still laughing and smiling around his people, his soldiers, even when someone died. He didn't know any other way to express his sorrow, so he hid it instead, just as the soldiers did. No matter how many wars he'd fought, it still hurt when someone died. So they all joked around, as if nothing had happened.

/break/

One of the guys, before being killed by a hand grenade, always thought about going home, just as they all did. "Man, I need a vacation," he'd say.

"Don't we all?" another guy would reply.

America would grin. "Go to Hawaii. Heard it's beautiful there."

But then the guy had been killed. Afterwards, they had all stood around him, just looking. They talked to the corpse as if it was still alive, just for a few minutes, and then dispersed. Only America and one other guy remained beside the body.

"He finally got his vacation," the other soldier said.

And America replied, "Yup. Probably better than Hawaii, too."

/break/

Throughout the war, America had not received many letters. He stayed in war the entire time, as was a nation's duty, and so quickly lost sight of reality. There were two things that he used in times of war to keep him grounded: England, and hope. Hope had vanished long ago, years before his participation in the war had ended. He'd realized how futile it was and had attempted to persuade his boss to let them leave, to no avail. So he'd clung onto England.

He'd had a photo of the two of them, and a letter from England, dated back to World War II. The letter, in a (very) roundabout way, applauded his bravery and wins. It kept him sane. He wrote several letters to England, telling him about the war, asking for help, but receiving none, and no reply.

Except for one.

The letter, from England, belittled America and mocked him for his "foolish game" in the "useless war with no end in sight." England wrote to America that his "intentions were faulty and from a mind of a child" and that it was time for him to "stop playing hero."

America had gone off into the woods, alone, with rain pouring down. He was glad. The rain hid his tears. He'd crushed both letters and the picture and ripped it into pieces. He'd wanted to scream at England that he wasn't playing around, that he knew that war wasn't a game, that he wasn't a hero. He was a villain in this war, and he hadn't wanted to be involved anyway.

He'd left the papers to decompose from the rain and headed back to the other soldiers. He didn't write another letter for the rest of the war.

England's letter had been written in 1967*.

/break/

He returned home, to his lands. To the rest of his people, and their fury. He was upset that they hated him so much. That they hated the soldiers so much. He felt as if he'd let them down. And in a way, he had. They had lost the war, and many people. And for what?

He tried to adjust back to the way he'd been. He went to McDonald's. He went to clubs and other restaurants. He went back to the office, but couldn't concentrate. All he could think of was how he'd let down his people. How there had been no reason for involvement in the Vietnam War.

England never called him. Not once.

/break/

Six months after attempting to adjust to civilian life – and office hours – America was alone in his house, with a gun in his hand. Instead of crying, he felt strangely calm and numb. It was going to be over. All the pain, all the shame. Gone. But what about his people?

America took his cell phone in his hand and speed dialed the one person he could count on. All the while, he didn't remove his gaze from the gun.

"What do you want, you bloody git! Do you know what time it is here!"

Oh, right. Time zones. America tried to chuckle, but failed. It was no use pretending anymore. "Hey, Iggy. Just wanted to say that I'm leaving for a while."

England sighed in irritation. America was seriously regretting ever calling, but he had to make sure his people would be okay. "Is that all? Why are you even leaving anyway?"

America grinned wryly. Remembering that one soldier, he said, "I need a vacation."

"And how does that involve me!" England's voice picked up again.

Worried that England would hang up, America spoke quickly. "Promise me you'll care for my people, okay?"

A pause. Then, "What are you talking about, America? Why can't you care for them yourself?"

America ignored England's tone. "Like I said … I need a vacation."

He heard rustling on the other side of the line, as if England was sitting up or something. England's voice was steadily becoming more panicked, "America, what are you up to? What are you saying?"

He hummed thoughtfully. He turned the gun over in his hand. He was starting to feel pain again. The emotional pain. Without thinking, he shot his foot.

"America!"

Holding back shouts of pain, America grinned, even though it didn't reach his eyes. "Sorry. Forgot I was on the phone for a minute. But you'll take care of my people, right? You're the only one I trust to do it."

"America, what did you do! What … what are you planning to do! You bloody git, don't do anything stupid!"

He watched his foot heal, leaving a mark. "It's okay, Iggy. I'm okay. I'm just going on a permanent vacation, so I need you to take care of my people."

"Shut up! You're not going anywhere! Bloody … I'm booking a flight right now. I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't … don't do anything until I get there!"

England was still talking when America hung up the phone. Calmly, too calmly, he put the gun in his mouth.

In a single moment, it was all over.

OoOoOo

* 1967 = I don't know much about the Vietnam War, but U.S. involvement was from 1965 to 1975 (I think; around there, anywho). So, in other words, America had a lot of time to lose his sanity.