The American Depression (Hetalia)

Mixed Feelings

America was lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. The flakes of the popcorn ceiling were old and crumbling; several flakes fell onto his face, disrupting his train of thought. He looked around at his small apartment room; the wallpaper was faded, and the carpet crummy. However, it was all he could afford with the current state of his economy.

He dreamt of a better life, and of a better purpose. All he could do now was wait for the other countries to solve everything; it's not like they would let him help them.

America turned on his side, exasperated by the situation. He dreamt of a soft bed to sleep in, and perhaps a sort of hobby to occupy his time. Above all, however, he dreamt of love.

England was a rather handsome gentleman—that much, every country knew. America knew more. He knew about his insecurities, his passions, his hopes and dreams... He tossed and turned just thinking about it.

Another volley of plaster flakes fell on his face. He sat up, looking out his lonely window. The blinds were bent and unaligned.

England was coming by today, "purely for business reasons," he'd said. America knew he should probably change out of his night clothes, and probably wash up a bit. Knowing his personality and lifestyle choices, he usually wouldn't have cleaned up at all; knowing his heart's true desire, he proceeded to change (only because it was England; anyone else would not have received the honor of a clean America).

Hours later, England arrived in his Nice suit.

"G'day, America," he said. He laid out his briefcase on the coffee table.

"Hello, England." America said it with a faked sleepy voice; he wanted England to assume that if he slips up, it's because he's tired.

As England opened his mouth to speak, America felt a shearing pain in his lower abdomen. He had multiple back-to-back fits of coughing, each of which produced a cloud of dust.

England lunged to his side, but the formality of business seemed to keep him from holding his shaking sides as he coughed violently.

England looked around frantically, and decided to take his suit jacket off, which ended the tension of reserved motives. He approached, arms extended.

It seems it's only when England's around that America remembers that England is a boy...and America's a boy...the concept is very foreign and wrong to him.

He never once imagined a scene such as this. It seems he only figured England might give the occasional blush, which would be flattery enough. "America-kun," he'd whisper. "I—I like your outfit today." In America's mind, every perfect scenario he imagined involved him wearing the suit England had given him so long ago, "for special occasions."

England held on to him, but America soon snapped out of his temporary illness and shook him off. "I'm flattered," he said, "but no thanks."

Perhaps that wasn't the best choice of words. It left England both crestfallen and abashed. "I'm sorry," he said. "Forgive me." He put his jacket back on. "Any other news about the economy we should know about?"

America shook his head. "There's been another round of bank failures, and it looks like there's still dust blowing around farms in the areas near Kansas." He sighed, looking up at England.

"Oh," England said. "Well..." He looked around, reaching for words he couldn't quite form. "I'm sure things will turn around soon, won't they?"

"Yeah," America said with blatant disinterest.

England stood and said his goodbyes. He wasn't there very long, and their time was spent without very much conversing; America supposed that must be since that's all they could talk about, before they start straying from "formal business." Things like that would have to wait until after the economic crisis.

America felt very alone after he left, but then again he felt awfully lonesome even when England was there. Perhaps that's simply how he always feels. Perhaps it's a normal feeling. Who's to say that what he's feeling is loneliness? But on the other hand, who's arguing that it isn't loneliness?

So, as a result, America was merely lying in bed—thinking about life, and his problems. Pondering the solution to the problems made him feel more productive, but to no avail did he come up with a plausible one, which only caused grief.

He resolved to stare out the window, waiting for his life to end, until he grew tired. He knew he couldn't die. He couldn't simply admit defeat. The only thing he could do was wait to try again tomorrow.