Based off of a Kink Meme Request, found here .?thread=21500368#t21500368

Warnings: Vague mentions of Vietnam War

Axis Power Hetalia does not belong to me.

Sometimes, he hated being America

Sometimes, he just wanted to be Alfred F. Jones, a nineteen year old boy who enjoyed playing football and being generally obnoxious.

Sometimes, he hated America

And sometimes, he hated himself for being America

Sometimes, he just wanted to run away from it all, his responsibilities, his problems, his government, his people, his everything

Sometimes, he crossed the border illegally.

Sometimes, he went missing for days.

And sometimes, Canada found him.

"Shouldn't you be in Washington right now?"

"Shouldn't you be in….whatever the hell the capital of your country is?"

Silence settled between the two as Canada considered America's question.

"…Do you really not know what my capital is?"

And America would simply huff, abruptly standing up and wiping the imaginary dust from his pants.

"I'm an American pretending to be Canadian, why would I know what your capital is?"

With a shrug, Canada shook his head.

"I just sort of figured you would know it…"



"Isn't it Ottawa?"

And Canada couldn't help but smile at that.

Sometimes, Canada wondered why he even bothered to try and understand his brother.

Sometimes, Canada understood that his brother needed to be alone.

Sometimes, Canada couldn't even give him that much.

And sometimes, Canada wondered why Alfred had started this stupid war if he didn't want to go in the first place.

Sometimes, Canada could feel those American boys who ran to his country for shelter.

Sometimes, Canada could feel Alfred among them.

Sometimes, Canada wondered if a government could put their own countries name in the draft.

And sometimes, Canada would pretend that he didn't know that Alfred wasn't the hero he believed he was.

"I'm leaving."


"War. For morale, they say."

"You're doing that badly?"

"…why don't I want to go into this war?"

"I'm surprised they didn't send you off earlier…"

"All the others I was more than willing."

"Are you going as America?"

"All the others I felt right."

"Or are you going as Alfred?"

"…I'm going to die, aren't I?"

And Canada could do nothing but smile sadly.

Sometimes, America would wake up in the middle of the night and listen to the sound of gun shots, of bombs dropping, of women and children screaming.

Sometimes, he would wake up to the smell of the jungle, the taste of sweat and blood on his tongue.

Sometimes, he would swear that he had been watching himself die.

And sometimes, he would wake up crying.

Sometimes, he would curse the government and his president, sick of seeing his boys dying useless deaths.

Sometimes, he would praise them, all promises of pulling out soon.

Sometimes, he would be silent as he stared at Canada.

And sometimes, he would cry.

Mostly though, Alfred would return to America, to Washington, to the army, to a country familiar but never before seen.

Mostly, he would listen to the sounds of men dying, bombs dropping, guns firing, and the land breathing around him.

Mostly, in the dead of night, he would remember his citizens who escaped to Canada.

But more than anything, he would wonder when he had become such a coward.