The Bipolar War

South Carolina

Teehee. Short chapter. But it's here yay happiness.

This story will be as historically accurate as I can make it, I promise.

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December 21st, 1860

America paced back and forth in his office, the echo from his footsteps sounding about the room. Swear dripped from his temple, onto the wooden floors. His blue were eyes blurry from thoughts and dreads.

He had written the letter a month ago, and yet still not a response. He knew it was ridiculous to think that he would have received word in such a short time, but his mind continued to reel. So many things were happening inside and outside of him. Panic struck his gut as a knock on the door broke uncomfortable, but better than most things, silence.

"Sir, I know you're quite busy. But your boss has written a letter." A young boy of about fifteen opened the closed entrance, and handed America the envelop. The older man swiftly sat down in his chair, taking the knife and opened the paper. Every second he took was a second wasted as he fumbled to take out the message.

Dear Alfred,

I'm very displeasured to inform you of the following information. South Carolina has seceded from the Union as of December 20th. I was expecting something horrid to happen, but nothing along these measures. According to the state, it is it's own area, with no ties to us. As the President of your country, I will try my best to pursue completing the Union as a whole once again. Yet, do not expect me to be perfectly successful. Once again, I have no meaning to them anymore.

-A.L.

A whisper of denial slipped from America's lips as he set the document down on the desk. He swallowed harshly as the sinking feeling of brutal terror entered his gut. Of course the thought of civil war was one he had had, but not one he had enjoyed or was prepared for. He was no where near ready to face this challenge. Not even close.

He slowly placed his head on the oak surface. His eyes began gloss as salty tears fell onto his arms. America didn't know what else to do but cry. It wasn't something he did often out of sadness or stress, but, alone, he quietly started to break down. He let out small, pathetic, sobs, burying his head in his inner elbow.

He didn't know what worse. The news he the country he had become and was is now damaged, or the fact of a small piece of him knew before even reading the letter. He could feel it, a portion of himself rotting away. Not disappearing, but changing. Changing in a way that the rest of him was not. It was inconceivable. He didn't know what had happened to the tiny part of him, all he could think of was it wasn't the same.

Another thought entered his head, and his wails grew louder.

What if he did disappear?

The concept had happened before, it could easily happen to him. Then what? America, the New World, a place of jobs, wealth, and happiness, just doesn't exist all the sudden. What would happen?

A chill ran down his spine as he thought of all the possible outcomes. They were all so morbid, so destructive. Havoc would occur if America disappeared. That wasn't conceit, it was true. With all the trade and taxes and economic solutions, America was needed for some people, and a lot called it home. No matter how he looked at it, if he was gone, some people wouldn't be able to survive.

So why, why couldn't the people who all needed him work together as a family?

Another soft sob, and then silence. Complete silence. Eerie silence. The kind they describe in the horror novels before the murder kills his victim. America looked up at the door, and then the room, and swiftly wiped his face off with a handkerchief. How embarrassing. He was bawling like a small child.

"Crying isn't going to solve anything." Alfred muttered to himself, shaking it off, sitting down. It wasn't going to solve anything, yes, but it did make him feel a lot better. Physically, at least. Mentally, he was still drained completely. Nothing could make this day much worse, nothing could make it that much better, either.

Suddenly, America felt the urge to throw a chair, or break a table. There was a surge of rebellion pulsing throughout his body as his cheeks dried. He just wanted to get up and go, run away from everything.

And then, just like that, it was over. It was like a brief loss of control, a part of him that didn't cooperate with the rest, and it made him unsettled. He knew why, he predicted it would happen. But nothing like that. The idea of him just randomly changing into another person, and only for a split second, was terrifying. He slowly stood up, swaying just a bit. Alfred was dizzy, nauseous. It was a rough morning. A very, very rough morning. All he wanted was a cup of tea, the way England used to make it, with a hint of honey and a sprinkle of sugar.

England...

Alfred looked out his window, staring out at the town below. He hadn't heard from the other country in quite some time, not personally at least. They didn't talk as much. After they're relationship as adoptive siblings ended, they had rarely done anything else than fight, and when they didn't fight, they were silent. It made Alfred rather sad, to be truthful. He didn't see Arthur as a brother, no where near. But he missed him, a lot. Before the Cursed War(*), the two could talk for hours about politics and geography and sailing, and now, even at world meetings, they had no interaction. England was focused on the meeting or France most of the time. Everyone knew they had a thing, even if England denied it. France, when asked, would just smile, and wink, then walk away.

"Maybe he's gone to visit François. That's why he's taking so long to write back. That's it, yeah!" America laughed nervously, before sniffling, knowing it was probably just because of the past.

"Whatever, I don't need that boiling tea kettle anyways..." He let out a huff of air, upset. He glances down at his feet as he heard the door creak opened.

"Who are you daring to call a boiling tea kettle, you sadistic wanker?"

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*Cursed War is what, for this fanfiction, Alfred calls the Revolutionary War.