"It is a frightening thought that man also has a shadow side to him, consisting not just of little weaknesses—and foibles, but of a positively demonic dynamism. The individual seldom knows anything of this; to him, as an individual, it is incredible that he should ever, in any circumstances, go beyond himself. […] man turns a blind eye to the shadow-side of human nature. Blindly, he strives against the salutary dogma of original sin, which is yet so prodigiously true. Yes, he even hesitates to admit the conflict of which he is so painfully aware." –Carl Jung

August 6, 1945

This was the day he regretted the most, even now.

But he was getting ahead of himself—there were other issues to tend to first…

There were no guidelines for being the personification of a landmass; no right or wrong way of doing things. You either succeeded or failed by taking example from your elder nations.

And if there was one thing that America learned during his rise from a collection of colonies to the beginnings of a potential empire, it was that everyone had their shadow.

The significance of being a world superpower had never fazed him outwardly. Every hesitance or moment of weakness was always shielded by a playful joke or overzealous laugh. He clung to his beautiful ignorance like a safety net, acting the part of absent-minded idiot quite impeccably. He thought he had everyone fooled—even England joined in on the game to jump at the opportunity to mock his feigned senselessness.

Normally, nations at the World Conferences never questioned his stupidity as a ploy (or at least that's what America had always liked to think whenever his eyes wandered around the table of representatives).

And to his surprise, it was Canada that almost ruined the entire performance, disappointed eyes chiding him for suppressing his natural state and element. Had the North American country been noticed more frequently, others would have probably caught on to his attempt at a disguise as well.

Eventually, being this overenthusiastic character that pranced around without a care in the world became a coping mechanism for America himself. If he could believe and convince himself that he was dimwitted and unable of accomplishing trivial tasks, he didn't have to acknowledge the extent of his power and the innovation of his citizens and lawmakers. It was when he was an idiot that he was absolved of all responsibility—all of his worrying. All of his problems seemed to stop sprouting the moment he pretended to be blissfully unaware of the world around him.

But there were still those dangerous moments; those moments when he would be stationed alone in his hotel room, getting ready for bed as his brain started a cycling mode of seemingly endless questions. In the solitude of the night, he'd sit by the windowsill just as he had as a child, gazing out into the night while his heart thumped with a painstaking fear of the future.

He'd look down onto the busy streets with envy, wishing he didn't have to be cursed to this life of living centuries upon centuries of similar world affairs over and over again. Rise to power, unrest, civil war, peace, unrest, bloodshed on foreign land, peace, more bloodshed…

It was maddening and never-ending.

And it's on those dangerous nights that America would unwillingly let the questions stream one after another. And another. And another.

Was that what being a nation was all about—just being a visual personification of what a mess the world was always turning into with no hope for the future? After all, he was far from supernatural; he had and always would have the same instincts and capabilities of a human. Sure, he got a much longer life-span, but overall, there was nothing that made him particularly heroic. When he thought about it long enough, he finally understood why he was always striving to prove himself—so he could validate his role on earth, because at the end of the day, he always felt just as insignificant as everybody else. Just another ant in the universe.

And it was that inherited human innocence and childish image of being an important component in the grand scheme of the planet that drove his ambition to stay involved in being a part of the world's superpower. Yet, every time his people grew unhappy, his feelings were mutual. His spirit died each time he masked his true self-identity. On occasions like those nights, his fatigue would show in his reflection of the glass he was staring out of, and he slowly sunk into the clutches of a future he wished he could foresee.

He knew suppressing his emotions wasn't a good tactic. Pretending to be an idiot probably was pretty unhealthy and could cause some real lunacy and mental depletion if he wasn't careful, but America had already dug himself too deep into uncharted territory. By the time he had realized his mistake, it was much too late.

England had notably gone through a brief realization during the war, finding the depression and darkness building in America's eyes the moment it had permanently settled there. He had warned him about doing anything foolhardy, as had Canada, but the fuse had already been lit.

Just after beginning to recover from the Great Depression, the chess board had been set for World War II, causing a string of pain and exhaustion that had little to no relief in between. By the time his scientists had even produced a working atomic bomb, he was suffering from long bouts of insomnia and nightmarish dreams. The unhappiness of his people had directly affected him, leaving him stone-cold and short-tempered often. He jumped into World War II with a frenzy of rage and hatred, waiting to help the Europeans take out Germany and Italy before securing the notion that he himself was going to take care of Japan.

The attack on Pearl Harbor along with the sights he'd seen on the battlefield had considerably numbed him. So much so that when he watched the bomb drop on Hiroshima, he felt absolutely nothing. He was thoroughly hollow and emotionless.

He did not flinch or wince or grimace.

He dared not even blink.

Later, when he'd look back on it, he'd wonder where he'd achieved that merciless indifference, eyes roving over the heavy shroud of smoke that rose thousands of feet into the air, charring his own lungs as he brought himself closer to the epicenter of the damage, knowing he was unable to die from the aftereffects.

"It's over," he'd finally murmured upon returning to his military post countless hours later.

Canada had turned his head away in shock, unable to process the situation as he walked away from the base and into the woods, blood running cold through his veins.

And for the first time in America's life, he'd managed to stun England into fearing him, eyes wild and disbelieving as he fumbled with his helmet.

"This was not how it was supposed to end. You and I both know that," England had firmly stated after regaining his composure. "Do you realize what you've done?"

America simply nodded his head. He hadn't been the sole perpetrator behind the attack, but he certainly didn't do anything to prevent it either. "You all wanted me in the war, but I'm not here to play around. Now it's over—there is no question about that. I ended it. Isn't that what you wanted? The Allies win again."

America's heart seemed to skip with life again when he saw England's eyes glisten in the afternoon light, full of bitter tears. "This is not what I wanted."

America bit down on his lip as hard as he could, startled.

He didn't want this either. He didn't choose to be a nation. He didn't want to have this responsibility. He couldn't handle the power he had collected.

He wished he could just be a human or hero; not stuck in the center any longer.

"I didn't drop the bomb," he defended himself.

"You could've stopped them," England countered.

"I didn't do it though."

England bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, choosing his next words carefully. "You may as well have."

Canada returned then, hands trembling as he hovered by the other pair of nations. America vaguely noticed him before dropping to his knees and succumbing to a nervous breakdown, tears flowing from his face shamelessly in an act of weakness that he wouldn't have tolerated forty-eight hours ago.

He quivered in the dirt, shoulders bucking back and forth as he sobbed quietly. He cried from deep fear as he had when he was a child, always plagued by nightmares and inner demons that, at the time, were still un-foretold and out of sight.

England released his usual weary sigh, signaling the start of his sympathy building. "Come here," he said, kneeling down beside America and guiding his head to his shoulder. "It wasn't entirely your fault. I shouldn't have implied such a thing. These things are rarely the fault of a single person."

America sniveled wetly against the proffered shoulder, tousled hair ruffling as a light gust of wind fluttered about them.

"N-Never as good as Canada—never wise enough," America mumbled repeatedly as he slumped against his ally, replaying the mushroom of smoke that had been visible from the fighter plane.

"Stop that," England replied helplessly, pleading for his former colony to straighten up and gather himself together again.

Upon hearing his name being mentioned, Canada knelt down by the pair as well, placing a warm hand on America's shoulder. "You're not a bad person, and you're definitely a whole lot wiser than you give yourself credit for."

America lifted his head from England's shoulder, swiveling around to face Canada while rubbing a cold hand over his flushed cheeks.

"Still, I'm obviously the better looking one of us," Canada teased a moment later, trying to pull America out of the dark reality of what it meant to be a nation. Sometimes, it was alright to just let go and forget the world for a little while. It was alright to be human.

And Canada knew that America had been deprived of being human for a long time.

America chuckled dryly at Canada's earlier remark, abandoning England's hold on him in exchange for Canada's comfort.

There were many times when an older brother could provide things that a twin never could, especially when said twins were much younger.

But now, the tables had turned.

England weakly smiled as the twins embraced each other.

He hadn't done such a bad job in raising those two after all.

"Ha! A six! Bottoms up, Al!" Canada exclaimed brightly, elbowing America in the arm.

America groaned in response, picking up his beer bottle and taking a swig before setting it back down and rolling the die that he'd been passed. Was it just him or were his turns growing more frequent?

"Crap… Rolled another one," he slurred, forcing himself to chug some more beer in order to stay in the game.

"You don't look too good, man. You wanna quit?" a stranger sitting next to him at the table asked, rubbing his stubbly chin as he took a sip of his own drink.

"M'fine," America insisted, rolling the die again. "Imma beat Mattie."

"I don't think so, Al. You were never good at holding your liquor," Canada smirked, his head buzzing as he watched the die being passed around the table.

Long story short, America had graciously invited Canada for a couple of drinks at the bar near the hotel they were staying at for the World Conference, insisting that they unwind and play a couple of old games that they hadn't indulged in for a while.

This surprised Canada for two reasons. The first was that America had even offered to pay, which was something that was always reserved for Canada to take care of. The second was that America rarely sought to get drunk. Sure, he'd been tipsy a few times after sharing some vodka with Russia or gin with England, but he seldom got heavily buzzed.

America drank whenever he was invited to drink and that was all. Otherwise, he stuck to his simple coffee addiction and avoided alcohol for the most part. So, naturally, when Canada had been called up at eleven o'clock at night to head out to the bar, he'd been a little skeptical and disbelieving.

After that, Canada offered to invite some of the other nations along, but America had fiercely protested, leaving them to play their beer games with complete strangers.

Eventually, America had no choice but to retreat from the game, stumbling over to the bartender for another Long Island Iced Tea. Unfortunately, the bartender had denied him the beverage, claiming that he'd had enough for one night, and that if he still wanted a drink, he would have to settle for something not as strong.

Needless to say, America got a little upset at that, judgment obviously impaired as he nearly doubled over a bar stool, reaching out to grab the bartender by his apron.

Canada, having the decency to limit his consumption of beer so that he could stay relatively coherent, noticed this and stood up, dragging America away from the scene and grabbing his coat that had been flung across the back of one of the chairs.

"We're going back to the hotel," Canada announced a moment later, passing America his coat and making his way for the exit.

"No! Why so soon? We can't go back yet."

"It's nearly three in the morning, Al. We've been here long enough. The other nations might start wondering where we are. Well, where you are anyway…" Canada frowned, watching as America struggled to aim his arms into his coat sleeves. They probably should've left a long time ago, but Canada had never seen America this drunk before, and truth be told, it was pretty amusing.

America belched, earning a look of disgust from Canada as he staggered out the front door, reaching out an arm to balance himself as he went. Finding nothing to lean on, the nation fell face-first into the cement ground, briefly yelping out in pain as his forehead scraped against the sidewalk.

Canada chuckled and rolled his eyes, feeling a bit dizzy himself as he pulled America up by the arm and urged him to keep moving forward. The man followed with a dazed laugh, finding the bright lights of London hilarious as he nearly got run over by a car when he wandered off from Canada's sight and tried to cross the street by himself.

A blaring honk tore through his ears as Canada snatched him by the waist and pulled him back, saving him from getting crushed.

A brief exchange of startled words took place after that.

"Hey, America? Do you remember where the hotel is?" Canada hopefully murmured a moment later, rubbing his aching temple.

Like a bubbly child, America cocked his head to the side and grinned. "Nope!"

"Great…" Canada cursed under his breath. "If I knew the address, we could get a cab to drive us there… What was the name of the place again? It's on the tip of my tongue…"

While Canada contemplated how to get out of the mess that they'd gotten themselves into and America attempted to remember why he was outside in the first place, a cop car pulled over beside them.

One of the two officers stepped out of the car, walking up to the twins with a serious expression on his face. "What are you two gentlemen doing loitering on a street corner at this time of night?"

Canada's heartbeat quickened, suddenly extremely nervous upon being questioned by the police. "We're just trying to get back to our hotel, officer. We're sorry for the trouble."

America, still in his own world, decided to speak up then, stepping up to the officer with furrowed eyebrows. "Got any beer, ssssir?"

"Bloody Americans," the officer growled out under his breath as America grasped his shoulder and shook the man roughly. America seemed to conjure up a southern drawl when intoxicated. "I'll have you know that it is a public offense to be drunk and disorderly in the United Kingdom, young man. I cannot allow you to wander the city in such a state."

Canada grew panicked, grabbing America by the collar of his jacket and pulling him off of the officer whom he had taken to hugging.

"Hah, you Brits… So uptight..." America mocked, while Canada pleaded him to shut up.

The police officer looked scandalized, eyes stern as he directed his gaze at Canada.

The Canadian tried to explain himself. "Sorry, sir. He's had a little too much to drink."

"Have you been drinking as well?"

Canada fiddled with his thumbs before slapping a hand on America's mouth to keep him from creating anymore outbursts. "Yes, sir. In fact, we happen to be lost."

The cop sighed exasperatedly. "I'll bring you two down to the station and you can call someone to pick you up or you can stay there until you're in a well-enough state to leave. How does that sound?"

"Thank you, officer," Canada replied politely with a nod, swearing as America bit his palm to get him to remove his hand from his mouth.

"Where are we going, Mattie?"

"We're taking a nice trip in the police car, Al… Thanks to your big mouth," Canada responded unhappily as the police officer directed the twins into the back of the car. "We're going to have to call Arthur to pick us up from the precinct."

America protested at that, whining at his brother once more as he tried to get him to change his mind. "Let's call Francis instead, he won't strangle usss."

"Arthur isn't going to strangle us, Al."

"Yesss, he will, Mattie! He doesn't like people wakin' him up."

"Well then, maybe you shouldn't have let yourself get so drunk."

"But you were drinking too!"

"Not as much as you!"

The policemen were not amused with their little argument.

Thankfully, they arrived at the precinct without getting into a fight, during which Canada gave up England's cellphone number to the officer before being handed a phone a minute later.

"H-Hey, England?" he cautiously questioned into the phone, squeezing his eyes shut as the older man began his rant.

"You idiots! I was worried sick when I found out that you two still hadn't returned from your little get-together! Now, I get a phone call at this time of night from the police? You two are going to owe me for this. I'm going to pick you up and then you better get ready to start explaining yourselves!" England's voice pierced Canada's pulsating migraine, leaving him to hold the phone away from his ear and at arm-length to keep himself from obtaining permanent damage to his hearing.

Just when England was preparing to hang up, he stopped himself, suddenly recalling something. "I want to speak with America."

Gladly, Canada passed the phone on to his twin, giving him an expectant look as he did so.

Still not the least bit sober, America laughed into the phone. "Hey, Artie. Have ya got any beer on ya?"

"No, you drunk git. You'd better not be suffering from alcohol poisoning. The only reason I'm agreeing to saving your hide is because you've gotten poor Canada involved as well," England explained firmly. "I'll be there soon, so try not to get into any more trouble."

"Poor Canada? Pssshhh... You shoulda seen him tonight, Artie. I get the feeling there's a lot he doesn't tell us bout himself."

"You don't say?"

"Just a little bit further. Come on, you tosser! One foot in front of the other! Have you forgotten how to walk?" England snarled as he led America into the hotel room with Canada walking behind them. When they had successfully made it inside, England seated America on the bed and shut the door, leaning against it with a heavy sigh.

"Christ, I'm exhausted. You're both staying in my room until you get a hold of yourselves. You're both still stumbling all over the place. Have you no shame?" England lectured as America collapsed on his bed and laughed at the ceiling.

"Hey, England?" he called out a moment later, eyes unfocused and fluttering about the room.

"What is it?" the green-eyed Brit snapped.

"I lost as beer pong."

"Well, isn't that fabulous? God, you smell dead awful… The state of you both! Go take a shower, Canada, while I make sure America doesn't upchuck all over the bed sheets."

"More beer?" America requested quietly, blue eyes blinking up at his old mentor.

England made his way over to the closet and found some spare clothes for the twins to change into later. "No, America. You won't be seeing anymore beer for a very long time as long as I can help it. And besides, this isn't like you. You don't normally get drunk. I suppose I can allow it for once, but you'd better not make a habit out of it. Sleep for a while until Canada's done showering."

America glowered, lowering himself onto the pillows and shutting his eyes dutifully. England was by his side a moment later, placing a hand on his shoulder with another heavy sigh.

"I've tried drinking away pain as well, America, and I promise you that it doesn't work. So, please don't do this to yourself anymore."

"Okay… Goodnight, England."

One more sigh for good measure.

Then, "Goodnight, America, you big git. And next time, call me first and don't rely on Canada to bring you home. I'm sure he had a blast out of seeing you lower your guard. You're lucky he didn't take better advantage of the situation," England shook his head and smirked. "You're supposedly adults but still act like children."

"I'm gonna get back at Canada for beating me today. Next time, I'll—"

"Hey, I thought we already established that there isn't going to be a 'next time'!"

"Yeah, yeah, England…" America mumbled, cuddling a nearby pillow. "We'll see about that."