AN: Written to Awakening by Secret Garden, I swear I am such a sap at times that it disturbs me.


"So tell me what we are doing?" I asked, glancing at the mess on the kitchen counter.

"Something I do not believe we have done together in a while..." I stared curiously at America, the physical signs of aging already making him look closer to my age rather than the adolescence he had appeared of only two decades ago. I winced when he coughed several times and began arranging the many items strewn out on the cabinet. I glanced at the jars and containers.

"America, we have cooked together many times..." He looked up at me with a confused look before walking out of the room and returning with a backpack. He began pushing the plastic containers into the backpack and then looked up at me.

"Go use the restroom, it's gonna be a pretty long trip," he muttered, a smirk playing on his lip. He trotted out of the kitchen and I could hear him starting his truck up the next moment. Well that was odd.

I shook my head and walked out of the kitchen, making my way to the bathroom. My gaze had been on the ground in front of me, but it was ripped up to the wall of the hallway when I noticed his prized bomber jacket was not sitting on the table of World War II memorabilia along with the medals and photos. I tried not to look at the pictures of us for too long, but I swallowed harshly at the one of him, France, and me all sitting on some of the rubble in Essen. We were smiling happily, with America's arm over my shoulder. We had won the war several days ago, and were reevaluating areas. America had claimed that the weather in Essen had been beautiful at the time, so we we broke away from the the rest of the men with a lively camera boy following after us. Then France opted for a photo on some of the rubble, and of course America wanted one as well.

I picked up the framed picture and stared at it a little more longingly than I should have. When the truck outside honked, I set it down and quickly ran to the restroom.


We pulled onto the cracked cement with a squeak of the brakes and a dust cloud following behind us. America hopped out of the truck, practically ripping the keys out with him.

"An... airfield?" I asked when I felt the warm air hit my shoulders. I glanced around and noticed that aside from the small hangar and cracked runway, the place was almost devoid of any sign of technology; the surrounding scenery a rather depressing field of grass and wildflowers. I snapped my attention to over my shoulder at the sound of shuddering metal. America was lifting the hangar door using his strength rather than the mechanics that would open it otherwise. I raised my eyebrow in expectation of a response.

"Eeeh, the keypad wasn't workin'." He shrugged and grunted when he gave one final push onto the door. It flew upwards and completely opened, revealing a small white aeroplane within. "Not as strong as I used t'be..." he muttered, tiny hints of frustration on his face. That one sentence was yet another sad reminder of his already fading existence. Secession and no value to his currency had caused his health to decline. It was in a rather consistent pace, but so much had happened in twenty years that it was only days to us.

He looked over at me and grinned whilst pointing at the car. "Grab the backpack, will ya?"

I sighed and turned around only to quickly locate the item and precariously pull it out. I walked into the hangar and saw America already evaluating the plane; looking in areas and flicking switches I had minimal knowledge regarding. He looked up at me and extended one hand, the other staying on some dial in the cockpit.

"Toss it, please?" I nodded and threw the sack to him before quickly pocketing my hands into my trouser pockets. The hangar was somewhat intimidating, with the high ceilings that seemed a little too excited to have company. The walls were covered in calendars and posters from decades ago, the most recent dating from 2003.

"What is this place, America?" I asked, a little too quietly to sound sure of myself. He laughed from the aeroplane, the walls happily rebounding the sound so that it surrounded me.

"It's a private hangar built in the nineties," he shouted, eliciting a frown from me.

"I could have estimated that much," I returned. He simply chuckled again, causing my chest to hurt slightly.

"I used t'know the family that ran this place..." There was a soft whirring noise. "They moved away about two decades ago, leaving the place in my possession. I don't get t'visit it that often though." He hopped from out of the cockpit and and walked up to me, his arms spread apart slightly as he evaluated just how vast the area was.

"Sure, it's dusty and stuff, but I like how far out of the way it is. The family actually had two hangars, the other even more reclusive than this one." I looked at him curiously as he walked over to a workbench not too far off that was covered in various buckets and rags. He sighed and glanced at one of the walls nearby, the picture of some group from the 90's smiling back at him.

"Is that where we are going?" I asked. There was silence for a few moments as he just continued staring contentedly at the many items in the room.

I coughed to bring his attention back.

"Hm? Ah, yeah, sorry 'bout that..." I hummed and walked up to him. "Yeah, we're going to that other airfield." He turned around slowly and pat my shoulder once. "Lemme just go grab my jacket."


I looked out the window of the plane, the sound entirely too loud to permit any kind of conversation with America. I suppose it was just as well off that way; it did not seem appropriate to talk anyway for some reason. I saw the trees below us turn abruptly into a field that was tinted yellow, no doubt from flowers. The shadow of the plane was racing us on the ground, scaring away several deer in the grass. I glanced forward and saw the second hangar America had mentioned and waited contentedly as he brought the machine down to the ground.

It was a bumpy landing, the runway filled with cracks that harboured plants within them. When the plane was parked, America turned around and reached for the backpack that was sitting by my legs. He grinned at me for a few seconds and then popped the hatch open, maintaining his playful eye contact with me. He snickered and hung his legs out of the cockpit, his grin now a somewhat mischievous smirk.

"Well then, mister, only one thing to do now," he drawled, a Southern accent tinting his words rather nicely. I really did need to admit to him that his accents were actually somewhat pleasant.

"And what would that be?" I replied, switching to Southern as well. I do not think he could tell much difference between my accents, though. He just laughed and ruffled my hair several times before tossing the backpack into the field, still retaining eye contact.

"A dinner on the grass and then a show of lightning bugs." I snorted and flashed a look to the backpack sitting in the swaying grass.

"And I am guessing that that was our food, wasn't it?" America burst into laughter before flinging himself out of the plane.

"Hell yeah it was, now c'mon and get your old ass out here and join me!"

I rolled my eyes and began climbing over the pilot's seat, watching him whistle and tap his foot on the runway. I noticed that he had apparently put his bomber jacket at some point in the flight, the brown leather glimmering in the sunlight.

"Aren't you warm in that?" I asked whilst clambering out of the plane. He blew a raspberry and snickered.

"Naaah, and if I was, than you would be dying in that dress shirt and jacket you have goin' on." I stuttered, trying to think of something to quip at him, but then he turned around and just chuckled. "C'mon, we got here later than I had wanted us to." I shook my head and followed him through the grass to the backpack.

"And was this just an impulse of yours or..."

"Actually, I've had this idea for quite a while. Just never knew when to actually go through with it." He fell onto his stomach and rolled until he was pressed up against the backpack. "Whadd'ya want to eat. I have sandwiches... salad... some weird white stuff France gave to me..."

"France cooked for you?" America nodded, still engrossed with picking through the items.

"France made all of this... In fact he offered to cook to me more often. Not that I'm complainin'." I swallowed harshly and and sat down, my legs pressed against my chest. So France wanted to be a bigger part of his life now too. The two had always been some weird forme of friendship, but no one really knew to what depth. Obviously it had not been deep enough for France to be complacent with if he was taking extra effort to be kind to America.

I looked into my lap after the feeling of weight made me do so. There was a quaint, little sandwich sitting there.

"I think he said that was horse meat, so you can have it. You Europeans seem to flock over his weird-ass food anyway," he said, already tearing into some other queer food that was sitting in a plastic container. I rolled my eyes.

"Thanks, love, for giving me some of France's shitty cooking," I muttered, picking the food item up. He laughed several times before poking my leg.

"I know you love his stuff, so stop being so damn cranky."

"That's just as bad as accusing me of liking your thrice-damned fast food." America cocked his head to the side with a silly smile.

"But ya do. You told me so one day when-"

"Yeah, yeah, eat whatever the hell it is you have, America," I said, waving him off. I did not hate France's cooking, but I questioned where America had heard that I loved it. Obviously that person would have to be reprimanded for their bigotry. Oh if only I had said that out loud; America sure would have gotten a laugh out of it.

"Fine fine, you cranky old man..." he muttered, playful undertones hinting at his words.

After about half an hour of us just idly watching the grass sway, America zipped up the backpack and slid on the ground until his side was pressed against mine. I almost told him to move away slightly and give me some much wanted space, but his face had been staring so sternly to the west that I dared not to. It appeared that he was looking at the sunset, but there were too many trees in the distance for that.

It was not until there was a quick flashing of light did America tilt forwards slightly and gasp.

"Blimey, America, you act like you've never seen a firefly before," I said, smiling slightly at his attentiveness. He snorted at me only to return to watching the air. I saw one appear near the plane and then another right between America and me. America saw it to, for the next moment his face was near my shoulder since the little bugger had landed there. I watched him amusedly, although my expression read the exact opposite, as he just observed the thing open its wings several times only to just climb up my arm.

"I think the last time we did this was in-"

"June of ninety-eight. You took me to Annapolis, Maryland and tried to stuff as many of the poor blokes into one jar as possible. It was so fucking hot that you proposed the idea of 'stripping down until our hides were able to be tanned'. That idea was dejected-" I looked down at America he was mock asleep against my shoulder, even making obnoxiously synthetic snores. "You twit! I was just elaborating!"

"Nobody asked ya to, England," he replied cheekily. I frowned and looked away from the still slightly childish eyes. Yes, America was aging rapidly (for a Nation's standards), but I was surprised at just how much youth he retained.

"Nobody asked you to be a twit either," we both said in sync. I glanced down at him, my eyebrows upturned in irritation.

"Very funny, America..." I said, rolling my eyes as he just giggled. He poked my cheek near the edge of my mouth earning him an apathetic stare.

"Smile for me, England."

"What?"

"Remember when I was young... You would take me down to Georgia in August... And we'd sit in the pastures that belonged to some of the farmers and just watch as the skies had the 'moving stars'?" I snickered and tried to push away his still prodding finger. "You would sit there and smile as I would try to catch them in my hands."

"And you would always return with a squashed insect on your fingers, asking me where the star went..." I finished for him. The firefly that had been on my shoulder flew off, detracting America's attention for a moment until it landed in the grass.

"So if I catch one, will ya smile for me?" I snickered and pushed his hand off my cheek.

"No, love. I-" My voice stopped when he brought his face in front of mine, his cheeks puffed out slightly as he just smiled at me.

"Can you please just smile?" he asked quietly. "You really don't do it enough, and I really am craving to see that little smile right now," he said sing-song.

"You crave a whole lot of things America, most of which don't flatter me that my smile is included amongst them." He pouted and turned his eyes away from me to a nearby firefly.

"Oh c'mon, can ya please just smile for me?"

"Give me a reason to that does not involve insects." America pursed his lips and knitted his eyebrows in concentration.

"Yeah, okay, fine." He grabbed my shoulders and grinned softly. He leant forward and quickly kissed me before pulling back with a large grin. "Smile?"

"Hmmm, not yet, love."

"Ah, c'mon, England, you're killin' me here," he groaned, although he looked like he was on the verge of cracking up. So he repeated the gesture, this time holding it for slightly more. When he started giggling into the kiss, I pushed him away.

"Alright, alright, you child, are you happy?" I asked with a grin. He laughed once and then poked the side of my smiling mouth.

"Yeah, I'm cool now." He continued laughing, although he was trying to suppress the mania, and rolled so that his head was resting in my lap. I had no idea what he was staring at, most likely the orange sky, but I just stared at his content face.

I watched the very person that so many actually did not bother to understand. I could not understand why he was hated the way he was. Yes, he was annoying, but to be hated for something his leaders did- something all Nations were susceptible to- really dominated how he was perceived. France, Canada, Australia and I, along with Israel and a few others, were probably the only ones that had any respect for him; although I had been less than prone to admit that I did. He and his people did not choose many of the wars he was forced into, and yet he fought valiantly until he either could no longer combat, or he won. It was somewhat admirable.

He did not choose to have his economy shattered. To have huge parts of who he was part from him, leaving him slightly more frail as more departed. He did not choose to face death after living such a short life in terms of Nations.

I do not know why it was that some nations were celebrating his impending death. With his death would come the loss of many other things, amongst them most likely me as well. But what his death impended, was an eternal loss of those laughs he had given me in the hangar, the grins he had shared in the plane, the signs of affection he had gifted in the field, and the blue eyes that shone through it all.

I berated myself for thinking such sappy and emotional things, but then I reconsidered. Those things would be permanently gone, a breed all their own extinct. And yet, he made sure that I was the one that was able to enjoy them the most