To avoid confusion, these oneshots are unrelated unless stated otherwise. These are basically different aspects of the USUK relationship... with Igiko. :)

His mind was numb and buzzing as he squeezed his way out of the horse of celebrating patriots, champagne dripping down his face in rivulets from his soaked hair. He gave a boisterous laugh as a grinning countryman poured his glass over America's head, another slapping him on the back. In a slow, laughing sort of way he excused himself and stepped outside. A warm midnight breeze licked his cheeks as he leaned against the porch railing, his eyes trained on the crescent moon.

Freedom.

Slowly, the blue gaze shifted to his hands. He curled long, slender fingers over vast palms, pleasingly callused. Further proof that he had reached his goals of his own hard work and those of his people; efforts that had earned him his freedom.

Independence.

America had become his own nation with his own laws and his own taxes. His people could govern themselves; he didn't need England anymore. The thought of standing alone didn't frighten him. In fact, it only served to exhilarate him. America had been working toward this for a long time. A hand slid through his hair, Nantucket ignoring the weight of the alcohol and his fingers. Despite his yearning for freedom, he had never wanted her to...

The new nation cleared his throat, resting his elbows on the railing (chipped white), definitely not allowing his mind to follow that path. The one that led him to the wounds that were only too fresh. It was much too soon, the mixed expressions (grief, hurt, loss, anguish, it had been so much easier to take the bitter anger in her eyes after the tea rebellion in Boston when he was still high on the notion of independence) on her face as she aimed her rifle in his direction; as she dropped it when his men trained their weapons on her form. As she fell to her knees on the muddy ground, head hanged in defeat, hands fighting to hide her all-too-visible tears. Her thin shoulders had trembled beneath the lobster coat meant for a man twice her size.

America rested his forehead against the heel of his palm. There could be no way to tell her that he still loved her, had never stopped, and as his persistence suggested, would never stop. Her tendency to jump to the worst conclusions aside, he realized that anyone would automatically assume the worst in this situation.

Would there ever be a day that he could meet her again on friendly terms to tell her that independence did not signify an absence of love?Would he grow used to this feeling of separation? The oddity of permanently removing himself from her hold after she had left him so many times herself?

Could he ever erase the memory of the once-proud empire who was his mother, his sister, his something-more with his name so understandably painful, and then so disturbingly numb on her lips as her tears admitted defeat? The nation rubbed tiredly at his eyes.

Such a notion was difficult to imagine now that he couldn't even remember her smile.