Being immortal was hard.
Being immortal, question mark. He supposed he'd only be immortal for as long as he had something to represent.
Questioning of the logistics of his situation aside, being immortal came with its downsides. He's seen a lot — death, crisis, war, everything that comes with American history. But what has to be the worst part is knowing that whoever he gets close to he'd have to outlive.
He learned the lesson the hard way — made a friend in his early years and grew attached, realized that they were aging and he wasn't, and stood at their bedside when they took their final breath and spoke their last words, still young and unchanged as ever.
After that, he came to the horrid realization that to avoid being hurt he'd have to make friends with another immortal person. He turned to another state, a neighbor, a brother of his. Massachusetts. He was nice, a bit hot-headed, but always directed his outbursts elsewhere. If he tried hard enough, he could remember the long nights spent staring at the stars from their roof, the days where it didn't piss him off to have his hair tussled, or when 'Yorkie' wasn't a name that just felt patronizing. All for his brother; the nice guy who grew up with him and found all the ins and outs of being a state by the time the 19th century came to an end.
It was nice to have someone close who wouldn't eventually die, is what he believed. But there's a reason why he started wearing the beanie to cover his hair, why being called 'Yorkie' only gets a rise out of him, why he tries so hard to distance himself.
Everyone dies eventually. It goes the same for immortal people.
He's not sure what exactly caused it, but he can pinpoint the exact moment he realized the Massachusetts he called a brother was dead. Late into the night, when he dropped and shattered a plate, waking the other two people in his house. He assumed Connecticut went back to sleep — he was about as quick to rage as the other two, but he much preferred his sleep over a shouting contest. Massachusetts, however, was quick to storm into their kitchen to New York picking up the broken pieces of the plate.
The fact that bad memories always stick harder fascinated New York. The fact that he can easily forget the memories he shared with his brother, nights upon nights of talking and pondering, kind actions that expressed their affection wordlessly, their shenanigans they got up to with too much time on their hands. He can forget that, but the words that shattered the last friendship he tried to make play in his head whenever he has to see his brother's damn face.
"What the fuck are you doing!? Go the hell to sleep, you piece of shit!"
Now, that wouldn't be surprising to hear out of Mass if you were anyone else. But at the time, New York had believed that he was the best person he could have for a guardian, and that he would always direct outbursts elsewhere to avoid hurting his brothers.
He had assumed that it was heat of the moment, the sleep still fogging his decisions, that he'd apologize in the morning when his head cleared.
But he wouldn't be lamenting this stupid story if that were the case, would he?
No apology came, and the shift in attitude continued on. It didn't take long from New York to come to the realization that though he was still physically there, his friend was long gone and in his place was an asshole that held no regard for what his words did.
He grew a thick skin, of course, but when he was still only used to genuineness out of Massachusetts, he spent long hours pondering what he had done to make the state so aggressive.
He supposed that was his own way of dying out, the same way the Mass he knew did. Going from a kid that just wanted a friend and turned to the only person he thought he wouldn't lose to death, bright eyed and trusting, to... well, what he was now. A cold shut-in that forced himself not to make friends. Sometimes he wondered if the same had happened to Alaska, if that's why he was so isolated, but the thought was merely passing, and he refused to try to talk it out.
After Mass' death, New York came to a simple conclusion; it was easier to not make friends to avoid getting hurt. And he stuck to that code; he eventually moved out from his home with Massachusetts and Connecticut, he made sure he was stand-offish enough to keep the states out of his hair when the meetings started, and he always kept his door firmly locked in the statehouse, if he wasn't already out doing whatever a state does.
Had California known all of this, he'd probably understand why New York was so stubborn when it came to calling each other friends. It didn't get him to go away, just made him find a different way to refer to him, but it confused him nonetheless. They hung out regularly, often found ways to entertain each other when meetings got boring, hell, California had even opened up slightly! And didn't get thrown out! And yet New York insisted they weren't friends, and they never would be.
If New York was one to analyze his feelings, he'd say he was scared of Massachusetts happening again, and though he cared for California he couldn't shake the feeling that it was inevitable. But he wasn't, so he settled for just saying he couldn't understand why everyone thought they were close, because they were not friends. As much as he'd like to be, it simply wasn't meant to be.
California decided not to be bothered by it. Sure, it felt dumb to still say he was the guy with no friends, but if waiting for New York to come around meant he'd be genuine, then he could settle for the lack of a title.
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this came to me while i was half asleep
enjoy
