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My stories are usually based primarily around yaoi pairings, which means boy-boy, homosexual pairings. If you don't like it, don't read it- it's that simple. Please don't complain or flame, as you have been warned.

Hetalia Axis Powers/ Hetalia World Powers is the property of Hidekaz Himaruya, Studio Deen, and Funimation. All stories are purely for entertainment purposes, and I am so not worth suing.

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Songs of North America is my series of shorts and one-shots inspired by a random troll through my iPod, and details the lives of my favorite twins, America and Canada. Though inspired by music, few if any will be "songfiction". Primary pairings will be USUKUS and PruCan, and each short is independent from the others unless noted.

America thinks about the one he can't live with but can't be without, and predictably gets more (though less eloquent) screen time than Canada. Set the morning after Track Two.

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Track Three- "When We Die", by Bowling For Soup

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I don't know who it was that first said that time heals all wounds, but he was obviously a human. He was also a monumental idiot.

When you live as long as we do, time does tend to…blend after a while. While nations are capable of retaining memories with far more clarity than humans, the edges of them still soften and blur if they are old enough. Though I am too young yet to have experienced it myself, Francis once told me that the years themselves do the same for the elders among us; that decades and even entire eras become like a faded tattoo whose shape the possessor himself can't even make out anymore. A few years ago, when I was in Beijing for the Olympics, I even asked Yao about it. He was showing me the Great Wall at the time, and he stopped and asked me to take his hand. I almost made one of my flippant remarks, but there was such warmth and wisdom in those sepia eyes of his that I just slipped my palm into his small one.In my mind, I could see the passing of hundreds of emperors, of millennia of rulers both good and evil; I could see billions of people and their wars and their famines and their joys and their fears. And behind it all, I could see Yao's sadness and exhaustion and the myriad scars that he bore in silence. When he released my newly icy fingers, I realized I had tears on my cheeks.

"That is what it is to be immortal, little brother. Time does not heal our wounds and erase our mistakes; it simply makes the pain of them less sharp. After all, when a human loses a limb, does he grow it back good as new in time? Or must he simply learn to adapt to the changes in his body and deal with them accordingly?" He smiled at me, patting me on the arm as though I were a tiny child in his care, needing solace after a nightmare. "You are so very young, America. You are still reckless and impulsive, and pay too little attention to your own history; but you are capable of adapting more so than most nations because you were born in a time of great change. Give him more time- we old ones don't change quite as quickly and tend to nurse our wounds for longer. And the wound of losing you was the deepest of all his long years."

I don't know why I was surprised that the cagey old bastard knew why I asked in the first place. I wish I could take his advice, I really do. I wish I was wiser, or had more patience; I wish I could let things play out to their natural conclusions. I wish I could be bothered to "read the atmosphere" as Kiku puts it, but those things just aren't in me. From the time I was born, I have lived my life by a singular contradiction- I pour my entire being into each day as though I were a mere human, yet take risks as though I were an indestructible elder. For we can die, we nations, especially the young ones. After all, "immortal" is just another word for "not dead yet". I suppose that when the Great Mother faded, leaving Mattie and I with nothing but spirit-visions of times to come, I assumed I would not last long either. I know now that she was one of the true ancients, the elementals far older than even China or Ancient Egypt, and that her era had simply ended. But then, it seemed to my childish mind that time was a fleeting thing that I had to spend hard, because it would never come back when I was gone.

It is the reason I grew so quickly, forcing my poor sweet twin to grow with me. It is the reason I clung so hard to England, and the reason I fought so hard to leave him; I felt I had to love him while I could, because I didn't have the time to stay and learn slowly from him like he wanted.

It's the reason I can't just wait around now for him to finally forgive me. I know that most nations, should they last, experience periods of boom and bust, of power and weakness. But while I have had down periods before, I have never truly had a decline and I am afraid as I have never been before that my rapid rise to prominence was bought with my immortality. I am afraid of fading, and of doing so before I can make it right between England and myself again.

A bit maudlin for thoughts at six in the morning, really. I could almost hear my Mattie asking if I even know what that word means, but that moron was still sleeping off his drunk in my bed. Of course, the reason for all my brooding was in the guest room doing the same. Arthur was already plastered when we dragged him out of the bar and into my New York apartment last night, but he still managed to find my hoard of bourbon so he could continue his binge-rant one-two punch past last call. The pitiful broken-glass victims of his attack were bleeding out the last of their fluids into my kitchen sink, which was a damned shame. Some of that shit was expensive, and unlike a certain twin who shall remain Matthew I don't ruin my liquor with maple syrup.

As I picked the glittering shards from the porcelain, I couldn't help but think that it reminded me of how things stood between me and Arthur. Our relationship was broken recklessly into a hundred pieces, but if I tried hard enough I was sure I could put them back together again. They just might not fit in exactly the same way as before, but maybe that's a good thing. We aren't the same people we were before we separated, so why does he always seem to want to go back? Why does he think it worthwhile to sacrifice a better future for this fragmented present? Mattie, while in his drunken-sage mode last night, told me that Arthur and I have always seemed like partners in a Latin dance to him- whirling apart violently only to come back together again. Always to come back together again. I suppose that it is true enough, as world affairs always seem to push us back into contact even when we'd rather be apart. It hurts to be near him. It hurts to be away from him. It hurts even more to receive a few blushing, stumbling overtures of friendship from the desire of my heart, only to be smacked down with insults and lectures later. Kiku has some special word for that attitude, but I can never remember it. Whatever it is, it makes him and Mattie laugh together at my expense quite frequently, so I'm not sure I want to know.

"Oi, hoser, where the fuck is the coffee?"

Speak of the freak and he pops out of the woodwork. Mattie is a mean son of a bitch when hung over and definitely not a morning person, so I just handed him a cup without responding. If I did, he'd just pull out his secret weapon- the Epic Rant of Extreme Nagging- and I just was not up to crying over what he would assure me are my many faults today. We drank in silence for a couple of minutes until his neurons started firing in the proper patterns, and then I saw it- a really goofy-ass smile on his lips.

"Just remembered last night, hmm?"

"Shut it," he sniped, but blushed anyway. A smaller, gentler curve of his lips followed- my favorite smile. The smile that means Mattie is simply happy. "I can't believe I asked him to dance! And he accepted!"

"Course he did. Who can resist the fabulous North America twins?"

Mattie stuck out his tongue. "I love how you can turn a compliment to me into one for yourself as well."

"Identical twins," I reminded him. "You looked like you had a great time. Are you going to see him again?"

Mattie's face suddenly looked like it could spontaneously combust- that had to be good. "He's going to take me to a carnival for my birthday in a few days. And he…"

For the love of McDonald's, was he giggling? He was!

"He kissed me goodnight, Al."

"And I missed it? When the fuck did Gilbo sneak that one in? He didn't give you the Bad Touch, did he? Vital regions still safe?"

"Al! Just because he hangs out with Papa and Antonio doesn't make him an automatic pervert. It was just a peck on the cheek, really, and it happened when you were scraping Arthur off the bar." Matt sighed into his coffee. "He really kissed me, Al. Me!"

"Who?"

"Shut it, fuzz-face," I said, smacking the bear on the nose for good measure. I punted the little shit to the floor to avoid a nasty bite, and then took my brother's hand. "I'm glad, Mattie. I think you and Herr Awesome will be good for each other. Besides, he's the one from Mother's vision- the wounded eagle- so he has to be the right one for you. Even so, if he hurts you I'll crush him into a paste and feed it to the bear."

"With syrup?"

Both of us ignored the furball that time. Matt squeezed my hand briefly, before wiping his across his face to dry a few threatening tears. "Thanks, Al."

"Whelp, enough warm fuzzies for the morning. I wonder if I should try to wake up the old drunkard. We do still have one day left of the UN Summit."

Matt actually snorted, the little traitor. "Good luck with that."

So much for brotherly love; I could use backup when trying to prod a wounded lion in his den. I walked to the front of the door to my guestroom, hand hovering over the knob in uncertainty. Arthur had been seriously drunk last night, making me very glad he left his ridiculous wand back in his London flat. His usual "ungrateful, Independence-declaring brat" rant had taken quite the different tack once he got into the bourbon, and he started clutching my shirtfront and talking about all the dreams and hopes he had for me as a child. He'd never really told me anything of the sort before. Back then, Arthur would simply pat me on the head and tell me to be a good, strong colony while he was away. At night, when he was here on my lands, he would stroke my hair, tell me stories, and send me to sleep with a kiss on the forehead and the assurance that I would always be his little brother. So much changed when he came back and I was nearly man-grown that I never had time to think about what he really saw in our future. Last night I got to hear it all, though I doubt he'll remember a word of it.

Arthur said I had been his favorite colony, though he was supposed to treat us all the same. That I had been different, that colonies were meant just to be resources for the homeland but that I was special and why didn't I understand how he gave me everything? He dropped that shaggy golden head onto my shoulder and wet the fabric of my shirt through as he whispered that I was supposed to stay by his side, to be his angel; that I was supposed to help him rule his empire as his right hand. His tears nearly choked him as he told me that his old manor house used to be so lively, with portraits of us on the walls and my drawings and letters all about, but now it was so empty he could barely bear to be in it. Then he looked up at me with those marvelous, verdant pools of green that I have both worshipped and despised, and said the words that seared themselves into my brain forever.

"I wish you had never chosen me, America, if you were just going to break me."

He passed out after that, but Christ what a mind fuck. All these years, I have never really blamed Iggy for our estrangement. After all, quite a bit of his rant is correct; England gave me far more freedom than his other colonies, he actually let me into his heart, and I still left him. But honestly, I'm angry too and hardly think I deserve all the blame here either. His babbling last night proved what I have always suspected, that Arthur's view on our relationship is hopelessly skewed and that maybe he never saw me clearly. Not to mention the repeated abandonment for years on end, the taxation without representation, the fact that he taught me to lead and to question then slapped me down when I tried to put those lessons into practice…

And your angel? I was never that, love. I haven't really changed much since that first day I took your hand in that rolling field of grain. It is just your perceptions that altered. The pedestal you put me on was too high, Arthur, and I knew that I had to leave it if I ever wanted to be myself- even if it meant breaking my soul to pieces on the ground below. If I could shake off those unfair expectations, that shining, perfect ever-child you wanted me to be, then maybe I could finally stand beside you as an equal. It's all I've ever wanted, and I have to believe that all this pain is worthwhile to make us right.

We aren't worth losing. I have to keep that resolve in my heart and soldier on, but I need to know that I'm not in this alone. A look held a few moments too long, a flush of the cheeks when we speak, a biting retort to cover a soft word; all these give me hope, but my famed confidence is failing the longer this dance continues. How can I know if neither of us is willing to risk those words?

Gently pushing open the door, I put a hand up in front of my face as I edged into the room. I was still a child when I learned that Arthur is not only volatile when hung over, but that he also tends to shoot the messenger. And by "shoot", I mean "hurl whatever blunt object is at hand at the messenger's head". Luckily for me, the old pirate was still in the "huddle under the covers and claim he'll never drink again" mode.

"Someone kill me. I swear I'm never going to touch alcohol again."

"We both know that's a big fat lie," I snorted, settling on the bed and patting the England-shaped lump under the covers soothingly. "Come on, Artie. We've got one more day of the summit and I put some water on for tea."

One bloodshot green eye peered at me from the corner of the comforter. "Tea?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, you old geezer, I even have your favorite Darjeeling. And there's still some of that clotted cream left over in the fridge, and that raspberry jam you like for your scones."

I pulled the blankets off Arthur's form, and he blinked confusedly up at me; he was a mess of disheveled blonde hair and messy eyebrows, with cheeks crease-marked from his face-plant into the sheets and a little drool on his chin. He was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"Why do you have those things in your house? You don't eat them."

"For you, stupid. Gods, it's like talking to Poland when you're hung over, Arthur. C'mon."

I turned to head back to the kitchen, rather relieved that England wasn't actually cognizant enough yet for a tantrum. A hand on my sleeve halted my progress.

"Alfred…what did I say last night?"

"Say?"

Arthur's massive brows furrowed heavily at that. I could play dumb with the best of them, so well in fact that most nations had no idea it was a farce at all. This man, however, had raised me- he knew better. Most of the time, anyway.

"Don't play the great fool with me, git. I can't remember anything after I started drinking that vile bourbon of yours, but that look on your face screams that I said something horrible. What did I say?"

Well fuck me sideways- the tantrum was coming after all. My brain screamed at me to lie, lie, and lie some more for good measure. My heart argued for a sweeping, romantic confession of love. I almost snorted at that one; as Iggy would say, 'bugger that for a game of soldiers'. I settled on a compromise.

"Aw, you just got a little weepier than usual, ya know? Soaked right through my shirt, even."

And here it comes- the wind up, and the pitch, and…

"I most certainly did no such thing! I'm a gentleman, goddamnit."

"Yeah, you sure sound like one," I retorted. "And I thought you couldn't remember anything?"

"You…I'll…stupid git," he spluttered. He was so fucking cute when he got all pissy. Those giant brows knit together in the middle of his forehead and his lower lip starts to wobble even as he screams his lungs out. Honestly I have no idea why everyone was so damned scared of England, even in his bad-ass pirate imperialist days. His expressions are so adorably overdone that you just want to snuggle the crap out of him. And suddenly it occurred to me, while Arthur was untangling himself from the comforter, that I knew exactly how to find out if he wants to try and make this right, too. See, England lies constantly- to everyone. He lies about things that aren't even worth lying about, just to keep people at arm's length. Too bad for him that it never worked on me, and his reactions when lying to me are different than when he lies to anyone else. I even have a rhyme for it- if he pitches a fit, he's full of shit.

"You also," I tossed over my shoulder on the way out of the room, "said you miss me."

Dead silence for a moment. Come on, Arthur, have a hissy. Give me something that tells me we're going to be fine, and I'll wait as long as it takes.

"I…you…why would I…now you've really gone spare! You must have been more soused than I was, if you imagined that I would…bugger all, Alfred, stop grinning at me you twat!" Arthur fumed, his cheeks crimson and his voice inching into the hysteric octaves. He picked up the clock from the nightstand and chucked it at my head. Fortunately his aim sucks when he's hung over.

"Hahahaha! You missed, you relic," I snickered. You have to give him an insult to break the tension after something that reveals he might actually give a shit about someone else, just so he doesn't implode. "Come on, we'd better get you that tea and pour you into the shower so we're not late."

Muted grumbling behind me as Arthur struggled into his robe, but I couldn't resist poking him just once more.

"Hey Iggy?" I called back, and the softness of my tone must've registered because he actually stopped muttering under his breath long enough to make eye contact. I smiled- my real smile, the smile reserved just for Arthur and Mattie- and let him have it. "I miss you too."

I sauntered down the hall to the kitchen, flying high on the indignant rant now coming from the guest room behind me.

Yeah. I know we're gonna be fine.