I can't apologize for the wait you people had for me to update uwu; I honestly had no idea how to continue it until recently and I still have schoolwork to finish before I go back on Monday, so yeah... Feedback would be nice please! ^^


Fandom(s): Captain America and Hetalia: Axis Powers

Characters: Alfred F. Jones (Hetalia) and Steve Rogers (Captain America)

Genre: Friendship/Drama/Tragedy/Hurt/Comfort

Raiting: T

Summary: Steve Rogers has known his uncle Alfred Jones ever since he could remember. He was always there for him, even when no one else was.

"White isn't always light and black isn't always dark."

― Habeeb Akande

October 27th was when the funeral was held, the wake was two days before and only lasted one. Both days had clear skies and a warming sun shining down and mocking Steve with its warmth. Since then, the boy decided that he hated the color black since he had to wear it for about three days straight now. His uncle had been holding him tightly, hugging him when he came to the older man in the middle of the night last night when he couldn't sleep. His mother's face still haunted him, her smile made him bawl at the mere thought, and her eyes were now two suns that had set and would never rise again.

Many of his uncle's co-workers and his mother's friends showed up at the wake in Brooklyn, men that Steve scarcely saw or knew well enough to smile weakly at. Arthur hugged him, and had been the only one to do so. Matthew patted him on the shoulder; squeezing it reassuringly and Francis praised the boy for being "so strong" as he had put it. Steve was neither of these things. And for the first time that he could remember, neither was his uncle as the tears welded in his eyes and one eventually streamed down his face every now and then.

Alfred was the most quiet he had ever known the man in his entire life. The representative wore a formal suit he had never seen before, a cross pin on his tie that Sarah had bought him one Christmas with American flag cufflinks and a heartbroken look to match perfectly. Steve didn't have to go to school, something that he was grateful for. Finding motivation in the morning to get up was hard enough, even with his uncle bolstering him up and easing the life-threatening clenching his heart would do when his thoughts dwelled on his mother for too long.

They rode in the limo behind the hearse in silence; Alfred with an arm around his adopted son and Steve looking out the window. Fall leaves were drifting gently from the trees, other children were playing on the swings with their parents, and Steve cried. Alfred pulled the boy into his side gently and the boy didn't refuse the country's warmth. It was all he had now. They were at Cypress Hills in another half an hour. The six men in the hearse carried his mother's coffin in back of Steve and his uncle. Alfred never let go of his hand, and the boy never wanted him to at the moment. He squeezed the bigger hand surrounding his and it squeezed back.

"Joseph Rogers" the gravestone read as they approached it. The grave of his father that he never knew. His mother was joining her first spouse…Steve looked up at his uncle, and Alfred had tears in his eyes once more that he was trying to push back. "1895-1920; Beloved Husband. Forever and always."

The priest opened the bible and began his sermon. The coffin was being lowered into the ground by now. Surreal wasn't what Steve would call this, but he would call it a nightmare. A nightmare was exactly what this was. Something to the side caught his eye and the thirteen year old turned to look. A soldier was staring back at him, rifle in his hands with a short bayonet screwed onto the end of it.

Blood and dirt coated his face, and weariness was glazed over the man's eyes. His dog tags caught the boy's eyes as they twinkled in the sunlight. He could barely make out the last name. "Roberts", "Richards", "Rogers", or something of the sort. More soldiers moved past the one, and the hoarse battle cries left their throats as they charged at the invisible enemy up ahead of them. Steve looked away, glancing up at his uncle for a brief moment before looking back.

The soldier was gone.

"In Jesus' name, we pray."

"Amen." Those at the funeral joined in on the single word, the word that barely left the teen's mouth. He looked around for a certain black haired teen his age, but the heart ache only increased when he didn't see him. Bucky never showed for the funeral. And in those few days, Steven Rogers realized that heroes didn't really exist, and happiness never lasted.

They returned to Washington D.C. the next day. They checked out of the hotel room early in the morning and Steve slept through the train ride, waking up when his uncle nudged him awake. Alfred still held his hand to the station parking lot and finally let go when they got in the car and began driving home. The engine hummed as it always did. And yet, the air was heavy and made Steve feel like he couldn't move freely like he used to. Breathing was more of a chore to the two men than anything else.

Sarah was gone and things wouldn't be the same.

The thirteen year old looked up at the road, seeing a truck heading right for them up ahead of the road. "Hey! Look out!" Steve leaned over and jerked the steering wheel towards himself. The car skirted over to the right side of the road and the other car passed by the two while loudly honking its horn. Alfred hit the break immediately after, breathing as heavily as his nephew was as he looked down at the boy. He had tears in his eyes as he looked up at the older male. "What was that for?!" He yelled at him, the loudest his voice had gotten in almost a week.

The uncle looked ahead at the road and tightened his grip around the steering wheel. Alfred's breathing began to regulate once more and he looked at his nephew. The teen let some tears fall when he let the man ruffle his hair lightly, rubbing it reassuringly. Alfred retreated his hand and then started up the car again.

When they got home, Steve bolted out of the car as fast as he could and ran into the house. After pulling out the keys of the ignition, the man followed with hastened steps. "Steve?!" the boy ignored the country, or maybe he didn't hear him over his thundering steps up the stairway. Alfred ran after him and chased him down the hallway. Steve slammed the door in his face. Silence filled the growing space between them, and finally…crying.

Alfred raised his clenched hand to knock on the door. It lingered there, not wanting to move as if it had a mind of his own. The seconds passed by and the boy's sobs were growing louder. The man pursed his lips and finally let his hand fall back to his side. His feet moved his body sluggishly away from the teen's bedroom door and down the hall where he sat in his study and locked the door behind him.

The rift between them was just beginning to form.

Steve did what he knew best and drew. Something. Anything. The first thing that came to his mind.

His mother and her smiling at him warmly as she always would. Bouncing from chore to chore with laughter as the record player would play a quiet song that she would hum along to. Steve's mother reminded him of a good natured fairy from one of the fairy tales she would read him when he was younger, never giving enough love to him it seemed.

Or maybe a fast pace one where she would tap her foot to the beat while doing five different things at once. Her mother became a skilled dancer that he saw on Broadway once in the city when the three of them went one year to watch a play. She moved with grace and made it look as easy as professional ice skaters do when they glide across the ice on the thin blades of the shoes they wear.

Her eyes twinkled like stars in the night sky. They were bright and radiant. And the darkness vanished around them the second it dared to show itself around her. She had a beauty in his eyes that rivaled the stars of Hollywood Land, or of a fairy tale princess from a faraway kingdom. Steve was too old to believe in childish stories, but it's what he needed more than ever now.

The pencil glided across the paper in rushed and furiously passionate strokes across the paper. Her face was calling out to him and he was bringing her to life from the unknown grave. Steve kept pursing his lips and hitting his forehead with the pencil's eraser.

Think, think, think…

And just like that, he would be at it again. Sketching as if she would come back, as if his life depended on it. Because it did.

Maybe she would come back to him after all; hugging him and kissing him just she normally would. She was finally there on the paper. The smile on her face seemed to bring her to life almost.


Almost would never fill the rift in his life. The paper was malleable and crumpled in his hands with ease after he tore it from his sketch book. Steve flung it across the room with the same motion in which he would play "Catch" with his uncle.

His Uncle Alfred. The only person left for him to rely on. The tears bubbled in his eyes once as he curled into a ball on his bed and bit his lip to keep himself from crying. His uncle could die at any time too, now. What if that happened? If he got sick suddenly and died just like she did? If he died in a car crash where his body was sandwiched between the automobiles and they had to pry it out with metal tools and mar his body further, pulling away a chunk of meat of a man he used to love? If another war broke out and he had to be drafted and he died with a gunshot wound to the head? To the heart? Turned into Swiss cheese like Bonnie and Clyde were by the coppers? If…If, If, If, IF.

Steve's head was buzzing and full of noise, ringing and aching all in the same and all he could do was clench his skull with his hands and pray it would stop. And while he was at it, what if he already was alone? If his uncle didn't love him but his mother? If he was used to get to her?

Love. He needed love right now. And no one had any to give him. Outside his window, the sun stilled shined brightly and the birds were chirping. A gentle breeze blew along the side of the house. The world was mocking him; mocking them with its cruelty that everything keeps turning while they stopped.

Night was day and day was night. Superheroes didn't exist. Things were not going to get better.

There was no way up from rock bottom.

So yeah, hate me. I hate me too right now. OTL Friendly reminder about the A/N!