I do not own Hetalia.

America woke with a start as the nausea over took him once more. He barely had enough time to lean over the side of his bed before he vomited. This time he didn't even make it to the bathroom, and, honestly, he didn't care anymore. His head hung limp over the edge of the mattress and the acidic bile stung his dry lips. He'd been sick like this for so long. Tears ran from his eyes. Sure, it seemed childish for a nation to cry, but he was only about a hundred years old. Compared to the other countries whose ages spilled over into the thousands, before recorded time itself, he was practically a child.

He sat up and pulled himself painfully to the window, careful where he stepped. Forcing the windows open he leaned out and was grateful for the cool night breeze that washed into his mansion. His stomach lurched again, and, once more, he threw up. He hung his head and closed the window. Suddenly, the outside no longer appealed to him.

He wandered down the hall in slow motion, careful of making any movement too fast. His head reeled and his clothes stuck to him from the incessant sweat. He felt like utter crap.

He knew that he was no human. Nations got sick whenever something to do with the people living in their land were upset or the economy was bad or some national tragedy occurred.
He figured that it was probably the upcoming campaign. Electing a new president always made him a little lightheaded from the anticipation and drama that always ensued among his people. But, this was different.

He found out the hard way that, because he was a big country, he would have stronger, more intense emotions because, naturally, more people resided in his territories. Lately, he and his people had been on a mission to become even larger and more powerful. He knew that this would mean a few more headaches but nothing like this. No. This was different.

He felt a wave of lightheadedness wash over him and his vision started to blank out. Reaching out to the wall for support, he flailed his hands, but, instead of catching himself, he fell through as he unknowingly attempted to brace himself on an open door instead of the sturdy wall. He, at first, felt a rush of adrenaline in the surprise of his sudden motion, but, when he hit the ground inside the room, he felt a flood of pain that wracked him.

He curled up in a fetal position and shook. He was hurting so much! He wanted it to stop! Stop! Stop! He cried some more, this time more intensely and unashamed. He was the definition of miserable, and he didn't know why!

He opened his blurred eyes to see that he was in a room he hadn't dared enter in years. The room was spotless just as it was left. A single bed with practical rather than comfortable sheets. A map of the world that was outdated by nearly a century. Parchments that were shriveled and inkwells that were dried up. And, the bookshelf of history books on top, and the few colorful fairytales books down at the bottom.

He remembered this room well. He remembered running into this room many times in the middle of the night seeking comfort and understanding.


Even though he longed to call him "big brother," he was instructed not to for reasons that the thick-browed man would not elaborate on, but "Britain" just seemed so impersonal. He even caught himself several occasions before he blurted "Dad."

"I don't feel good."

The aforementioned brother was hard at work at his desk, even at this hour. The lamp almost out of oil and there were bags under his green eyes. It was hard managing colonies that were so far away. America was always glad whenever Britain came to spend time with him. However, it was always, first and foremost, a business trip.

"Then get some sleep. You'll feel better in the morning." He rubbed his enormous eyebrows as he reread the paragraph of script over again.

"But I can't."

"You complain that you're tired all the time! Now go to sleep!" The elder country said sternly, as he focused intently on the papers in front of him

"I know, but it's really weird. They keep saying weird things."


"The thirteen! They…I think they're upset."

Britain sat back in his chair as he must have had the last straw.

"America, the colonies will always be upset about something. No populace is ever 'happy.' This," he pointed to the drying stack of paper, "will make them more upset if it isn't dealt with. Trust me. Your economy is-"

"They're angry-"

"-something that cannot be undervalued. As I've tried to explain to you-"

"They're angry with-"

"-but you never pay attention. You're still a colony, but you should have at least a basic understanding-"

"They're angry with you!"

That stopped him, but only for a moment. Squinting his eyes on his little colony in the dim light, he sighed and pulled himself out of the hard, stiff chair.

"Come on."

America eagerly grabbed the outstretched hand of his mentor country as he was led back to his room and tucked into bed.

"Where did we leave off in the book last time?" He said as he pulled the hard-cover book open to the bookmarked page.

Sitting on a rocking chair that was pulled to the side of America's kid-sized bed, Britain read. However, America's concerned face did not soften, nor did he tire and drift off to sleep as expected. What Britain assumed as a childish need for attention might have actually been exactly what America said it was: the colonies were angry.

Chapter after chapter Britain read as he began to grow frustrated. America had not fallen asleep yet so he couldn't get any of the paperwork done in peace, and, potentially, the colonies had some sort of tiff with him. A tiff serious enough to make America ill.

What Britain didn't know was that America was suffering from the first signs of rebellion. The warring opinions of his people.

It was the same, ugly feeling he was feeling now except for one key element: the anger that set off this onset could not possibly be directed at an overbearing ruler.

America sat up with a start as he heard the ominous sound of death: cannon fire. He raced to the window and flung it open from its seal of dust and debris of time. Outside, on the horizon, flashed orange bursts, but America sensed no foreign country on his land. Who were his people fighting?

For one agonizing moment of clarity, he realized why he was feeling just as sick as he felt when he was a rebelling colony. His people were warring against his people. America was in Civil War.

America felt a ripping sensation in his chest, and he knew war had begun.

He leaned forward and threw up.

Just a short little drabble I thought up when I was having some Hetalia feels. Woot.
It's kinda sad when I think the only country I will be able to write about historically is America. Yay for proving the ignorant American stereotype!
Review if you so desire.

Looking forward to it.