Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Copyrights go to Hidekaz Himaruya.
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Sweet Land of Liberty.
Tidal waves of sepia crashed over the saffron-haired country suspended in abyssal, pitch-black space, installed into a world in which time had iced over. It was impossible to tell if his cobalt eyes were open or not, but even still his gaze darted around, attempting to pinpoint his unknown location. "Mattie?" He called out to the airless space around him, though his voice never met his ears.
The scenery changed abruptly, wrenching the baffled country from what could have been purgatory and transplanting him just outside a brick courthouse. Wide Victorian porches wrapped around the first and second story, accented by three boxy windows on the top story and two on the bottom. A formidable staircase led to an open front door, almost beckoning the country inside. An ethereal force directed the blonde as he traipsed up the stairs and through the door; though he had never once been in this courthouse in his living memory, he knew somehow that he had to climb the lacquered flight of stairs and enter the second door on his right. Low voices wafted through the air as he ascended the stairs, rising in volume and clarity until America pushed the second door to his right open and allowed himself inside.
Two men occupied the room, both dressed in ornamented uniforms that America recognized automatically: they had to have been commanders in the war that currently savaged his beloved country. One, an older-appearing gentleman with trimmed silvery hair and beard, perched behind a marble-topped mahogany table while the other, seeming slightly younger with smartly-cut dark hair, settled behind an oval writing desk. Their dialogue had a clipped quality to it, as if they never finished their sentences entirely: America was only able to catch bits and pieces of their conversation, though it had to do with something about the Mexican-American War that had waged two decades previously. Neither seemed to notice America's intruding presence within the room as their topic of discussion switched. "Terms… surrender…." the graying man spoke, his hands lacing together and coming to rest on the table in front of him.
"The Union will… receive surrender… Army of Confederacy… officers and soldiers… not to take arms again for… duration of their lives… not to be disturbed by United States authority… as long as they observe the laws… is that clear, General Lee...?" The other situated at the writing desk stated, a pen whisking over formal-looking documents spread across the stout table.
"Thank you, Lieutenant Grant… American Civil War… is now over…." Lee breathed in relief, his hands unlacing as he stood from his chair and crossed the room, extending a hand to the now-standing Grant.
America's throat closed as they shook hands; his lungs seemed to twine together in his chest as a crushing pain radiated throughout his body, his heartbeat pounding against his eardrums and effectively staunching all outside sound. He collapsed against the floor, a hand uselessly reaching toward the older men as his azure eyes fluttered shut, agonizing pain shackling his brain and body….
"FUCK!" the teenage country screamed as he bolted upright in a foreign bed, his left hand clawing at his chest and a sheen of arctic sweat shimmering against his apricot skin in the quivering candlelight.
His clear, robin's egg eyes scanned the room until they stumbled upon the form of Canada, curled up in an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair placed beside his bed. "Mattie?" America called, a hand reaching out and grasping Canada's shoulder, carefully shaking his lookalike.
The blonde jolted, tumbling out of the chair as his glasses flew off of his nose. "Eh…? A-America?" Canada exclaimed in bewilderment, hopping to his feet reflexively as a pair of violet eyes appraised the wounded country through a slightly blurred periphery. "Thank God that you survived…."
"Where are we? Survived…? Mattie, what are you talking about?" A wheat brow quirked as America eyed the meek country, confusion waltzing across his expression.
"You can't tell me you don't remember, Alfred…." Canada muttered, the raw pain that coursed through his voice along with the use of America's human name sending unpleasant shivers down the other's spine, "You tried to off yourself… with a gun… you shot yourself in the head, right temple. You better be goddamned thankful you're a nation… no human could survive that… after that I brought you to my house. It's the only thing I c-could think of doing at the time." His eyes shifted to the floor instantly, an attempt to hide the tears that welled once again in his eyes.
America's right hand flitted up to the side of his head, fingertips grazing the cottony gauze that coiled around the top of his head. His eyes widened as his memory returned to him, much like a dammed river breaking through the manmade obstruction and flowing freely once more. Stills of a fleeting dream that clung to the edge of his memory played through his mind of the two older men talking as liquid-hot realization dawned over him. "Holy shit Mattie…! The war… it's finally over…."
"Your war? How do you know that…?" Canada asked, his voice cracking harmonically as his hands balled into fists, attempting to hold fast to his composure.
"I saw it! At first I was in this really dark room, then I got transported to this brick courthouse and something made me go to the second floor, where these two old dudes were talking… they were the generals of the Union and Confederate armies discussing the Confederacy's surrender! Somehow, I saw this… and I know the war's over for good." America nodded certainly, the characteristic fire of determination igniting behind his irises for the first time in five years.
Canada forced himself to meet America's eyes, reading the familiar bravery that he had once longed to see as fat tears rolled down his cheeks, whisking away the calm-and-collected façade that he had worn for far too long. His breath came in shuddering gasps as he stepped closer to his doppelganger, perching on the edge of the bed and tossing his arms around America, his forehead banging into the hard surface of the other's shoulder. "You were… so damn far gone during this… war… and now you're… finally back…." Canada managed through the relentless sobs that wracked his frame, his shoulders trembling weakly.
"I'm sorry," America whispered in his ear as his sinewy arms embraced Canada, holding the other country close to him; his eyes prickled warningly as a lone tear jetted down his left cheek.
Canada lifted his head, swiftly wiping away the tear tracks imprinting his skin with his sleeve as his watery indigo eyes met America's steady sky blue. His brows lifted as he noticed how clear and iridescent his neighbor's irises glimmered, no trace left of the cloudy quality his eyes had donned during the civil war that had all but decimated him. He shook his head as he cleared his throat before speaking, "Don't apologize. Just don't… don't let things get that bad ever again. Promise me that at least."
America nodded, the tension that surrounded his eyes softening as an aura of calm engulfed him, seeming to emit from the country in his arms. "It's a promise, Mattie."
A hand reached up to America's face, cupping his cheek as a tropical smile illuminated Canada's countenance. He chuckled throatily, his eyes flickering across America's cheeks now infused with embarrassed rouge. "Do you think you're ready to go back home?"
"Yeah," America replied, confidence weighting his words as his hand shadowed Canada's, plucking it away from his face and lacing his fingers through the other's. "I think it's time for Reconstruction."
Fin.
