We know that America has insecurities about being inadequate (history wise) compared to the other countries. Let's expand on this. I don't want just the inadequacy but the focus on feeling as tho every other single country hates him.
Bonus 1: Show him using normal day to day contact to prove/verify the hatred towards himself.
Bonus 2: What his comfort activity/escape? (no video games please)
I don't care if there is a pairing or not or even if you want to make it a tragic traumatizing no happy ending. I just want to see some ideas :D
Like most days where ‘heroes’ feel down, this was hardly anything special. It was raining and cold and every so often a bolt of lightning would light up the sky. Given that America wasn’t fond of cold weather in the first place, he was understandably less than thrilled when he glanced up from a governmental report to look out the window.
Sighing, he closed the curtains and hoped the thunder wouldn’t be too loud.
Murphy’s Law wouldn’t even allow that small mercy. After all, if it was already an awful day, why on earth should the Universe be inconsistent? So Mother Nature of course had to kick it up a notch, the thunder louder than ever, the rain pouring down at an almost obsessive rate.
America just sighed again, leaning closer to his papers, trying his hardest not to get distracted. It was already hard enough to see, as his eyesight had just been getting worse and he needed a new prescription, but he had a migraine on top of it.
So, naturally, right when he was trying to finish up the report, the lights cut out.
Realizing that there wasn’t much he could do, he just laid backwards and gave up for the day. He had a vague hope that tomorrow would be better, but knew in his heart that, like all the days before it, it’d still be full of people who either didn’t appreciate him, expected too much of him (or worse, too little), or just plain didn’t like him.
He drifted off into an uneasy sleep, the thunder fortunately kept at bay by the loudness of his dreams.
---
America woke late. He knew very well that he’d just been sleeping later and later, and that maybe he should stop, lest he get in the habit of getting more than five hours of sleep as he’d been doing for the longest time, but it just felt so good to escape for so long.
Still, when his boss called only a few minutes after America had woken, the nation couldn’t help but feel a bit depressed.
“Did you finish reading the report I sent you last night?” his boss asked in the ‘Presidential’ tone that America had grown to hate.
“The power cut off,” America tried to explain. “But I got the gist of it. More tax cuts for everyone, huh?”
“If you’d actually finished the paper you’d have known that I also proposed a few more trading regulations. We can slow the debt accumulation by at least fifteen percent—”
“Yeah, I know,” the nation replied, rubbing at his forehead. “But we need to start paying it off as soon as possible. The economy isn’t going to get better until we fix it. And I don’t want to just keep piling it up for the next generation!” He sighed, realizing how harsh he’d sounded. “Sorry, sir. I’m just… really, really tired of feeling the economy get worse. It’s about to the point where it’ll make me physically ill, you know?”
The president stayed quiet for a while. “Well, maybe if you actually showed up to the meetings in D.C. and proposed these things, you’d get some more ground.”
America tried to protest—tried to tell him that he wasn’t supposed to interfere—but before he could get more than a strangled “But sir!” out, the president hung up.
He stared at the phone for a while, wishing he had the nerve to call back, to yell at his president and say that if he couldn’t even treat his nation’s representation right then how was he supposed to treat the actual people right, but America felt too tired to much of anything. He fell back against his pillow, fully intending to sleep the rest of the day away, if just for a break.
Dreams and nightmares and the vaguely creepy, vaguely twisted parts in between kept waking him up, though, and by midday, he gave up. He scanned over the report again, fully expecting to see an actual proposal of trade regulation. Near the bottom, he saw it—half a sentence, maybe, and used words such as ‘if’ and ‘perhaps’ to explain it.
World Meetings had become subdued affairs. There was less arguing as passive-aggressive commenting, and any physical violence was met with a strict appointment with bodyguards.
America couldn’t help but miss the old ways, when everyone was varied and no one got confused for someone else—when everyone proudly hailed their country’s flag at the opening ceremonies, and brought a specialized dessert for the lunch break. Anything but what it was now, really—where everyone wore a suit with perhaps just a touch of their individuality, and nations were expected to leave the premises for their lunch.
What he missed most, though, was probably the debates himself. Sure, they rarely got anywhere, but no one had to second-guess who was siding with who, and why someone was pushing the reform that they were pushing. No one had to guess at much of anything; the nations all but screamed their opinions at eachother, all but beat eachother over the head with their ideals.
America felt more depressed than usual, though, upon realizing that he was the host.
It meant that, not only would he have to hear people muttering about his lack of cultured restaurants and ‘uncouth hotel staff’, but he’d have to accommodate the snide remarks, take them in stride, and get a lecture from his boss not to do the same when in other countries. As if he would to start with.
Finally—finally—the first day of the conferences came, and he could just get it over with and be done with it for the next month or so.
As always, he was nervous with his speech—he’d never been good at them, much less when he had to be as indirect as possible, to avoid “upsetting an ally”—and, as always, it was that nervousness that was his downfall.
“Uh—Good morning,” he said, cursing himself for the mistake he’d already made, cursing himself for causing the frown from his boss that he just knew was there as the man watched from a separate room. “And welcome to good ol’ New York City, yeah? As I’m sure everyone knows, we have a lot to get covered today, so I release the stand to, um,” he glanced down at his notes, “Switzerland.”
And he could have sprinted back to his seat, could have fallen flat on his face, he was so happy to get to sit down, to have at least an hour and a half of taking notes before a lunch break, and then another two hours of note-taking before he made his presentation. After that, he’d just have to take more notes and then close the meeting and—
Someone elbowed him in the side, shortly after Switzerland’s presentation, and America glanced up with startled eyes to find England, looking coldly disappointed as usual.
“Can—Can I help you?” America asked carefully, nearly choking mid-sentence.
“My boss has requested that we dine together,” England said carefully. “And given that I’m hardly one to neglect diplomacy, I’m inclined to follow his suggestion.” He paused, looking almost disdainful as he added, “And for God’s sake, pick a decent restaurant for once.”
America just stared at him for a moment, then forced his lips into a reasonably-believable smile. “Not a problem. My boss has been worrying about relations with your nation as well.”
England gave him a semi-curious look(but not particularly interested—because it would be terrible, wouldn’t it?), but seemed to shrug it off fairly easily. “Whatever you’d like. Though I must say, if your boss is lecturing you about it, oughtn’t you have said something earlier?”
And with that, Germany cleared his throat and motioned for the in-between speakers chatter to die down. It did, and then the presentations moved on.
“So, have things been going well for you?” America asked, hoping the atmosphere at the restaurant was quiet enough for his companion. He’d picked this place specially, hoping it would be high-enough class.
It appeared to meet most of England’s qualifications, but nevertheless, something always seemed to be wrong with it, and this one was no exception, judging by England’s previous comment about the absurdity of the portion sizes. “Fairly well. My economy is slowly improving, no thanks to your bloody economic crisis. However, I’m not the one with a sixteen trillion dollar debt so, I’m afraid I must ask—how are you doing?”
America forced out a chuckle, but it came out more nervous than anything else. He mentally slapped himself for losing composure. “It—It’s not too much of a problem, really. My boss is pushing to slow the debt rate, if nothing else, but I really wish he’d start paying things off. China wants my hide on a silver platter,” he said, trying to inject some humor into the conversation, but failed miserably.
England just frowned. “Perhaps if you weren’t so hard-pressed on maintaining traditional Capitalism, you wouldn’t be in such a tight situation.”
“I couldn’t do that to my people,” America said firmly. “And if I’m not mistaken, you were just as much a proponent of Capitalism as I was, especially in the Second World War. And since you’ve never said a harsh word about Churchill, I don’t think you should be trying to tear down what he stood for—”
“No need to get so defensive,” England said, raising an eyebrow at the strong answer. “I was just making a statement is all. Really, America, you should learn to reign in that temper of yours.”
America stared at him for a long while, but before he could control his tongue long enough to make a reply that wasn’t rude, the server came and delivered their respective dishes.
After England made a particularly snarky comment about the size of the portions, yet again, America stopped bothering to reply at all.
“You were rather rude to him, you know,” America’s boss said later, after the meeting had ended (and he’d screwed up his presentation and closing speech and damn, why did he always have to do that?). “You should apologize.”
“He was pretty rude to me, too, in case you didn’t hear that part of the story,” America snapped, tired of the bias and the high expectations. “You’re better than that, though,” his boss tried to explain, tried to convince him.
America just scowled at him. “Glad you think so. I’ll make sure to keep the rest of your brilliant theories in-mind at all times, because they’re just so useful, aren’t they?”
“Hey—” the president started to say, but his nation just gave him a long look, and it seemed to silence him.
“I’m taking my vacation. Since I haven’t taken one in almost two years, I don’t think anyone is going to mind if I extend it a little,” America said firmly. “All I’m asking for is three weeks, boss. Three weeks, and then I’ll go back to… whatever it is you guys seem to want me to do.” His boss considered him a moment, then finally shrugged and said, “All right, then. Three weeks, America. Three weeks. And try not to make it expensive—we don’t want to give the wrong impression, and this is on government money, after all.”
And with that, the man proceeded to enter his private limousine, leaving America far behind.
---
Perhaps isolation hadn’t been the best solution to his problems, America mused, a few days into his vacation. But he’d needed it, he’d needed it so badly it physically hurt. As far as he was concerned, he couldn’t take one more meeting, one more report, one more anything.
Still, having so much spare time forced him to acknowledge some things he’d been repressing for he didn’t even know how long.
Absently, he traced a hand over his middle, first berating himself for neglecting personal fitness—as he could swear he’d been thinner a few weeks ago; perhaps he should skip dinner tonight, too, and maybe lunch the following day?—and then, a moment later, feeling the faded scar that circled his waist.
It was jagged, to be sure, but the jaggedness more represented the states borders than someone just shifting a knife up and down and back and forth across his middle. He wouldn’t have let someone do that to him—wouldn’t have let someone do that to him without a fight—but some Nation-details were unexplainable. This was one of them.
Still, the memory of it made him hurt, a deep, almost physical ache. He hadn’t even been a nation a hundred years before his country was nearly split in half. And Reconstruction had taken so many years, and he’d gotten no foreign aid because no one cared—
No one cared even in modern times, he couldn’t help but remember. No matter how often he would provide resources and people to physically help nations dealing with disasters, it seemed like the favor would never be returned. The last time he’d gotten people even offering to help him was with the BP Oil Spill, and a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if it was just for the sake of nicking some oil out of it.
Feeling particularly bitter, he didn’t bother to pick up the phone when it started to ring, instead turning the power button off so it wouldn’t bother him in the future.
Thoughts were keeping him awake—thoughts and memories and insecurities, but mostly insecurities.
He couldn’t remember the last time a nation had said something kind to him. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time anyone, citizens included, had said anything remotely positive. Sure, the Fourth of July was reasonable, but that was all fanfare, and people just used it as an excuse to take a day off and eat ‘American’ food.
And even then, he got in trouble for even mentioning the Fourth of July at meetings. The other nations would either scoff at him for being so childish or tell him to perhaps spend half as much money on repaying debts as celebrating nationalism and maybe he wouldn’t be in such a bad financial position.
Then there were the memories—the night-terrors, the normal nightmares, the vaguely disturbing dreams that always came about after watching a television special on his ‘history’.
So, no, he wasn’t exactly sleeping well, and, really, it wasn’t that big of a deal to him when he finally gave in and picked up some sleeping pills.
He took three more than necessary the first night, and to his pleasant surprise, he’d managed to sleep without too many dreams, and waste away nearly twelve hours.
So he started doing it every night.
Within a week, he’d managed to sleep away nearly three fifths of his time. But if just didn’t feel like enough. Perhaps he could just do away with himself and sleep until the end of the year? Being comatose actually sounded quite lovely. It would mean that he couldn’t hear any insults, and that he’d finally be thin-thin-thin, because he couldn’t eat, couldn’t get called a pig, couldn’t be called obnoxious if he couldn’t yell at everyone and—
He downed most of the bottle before he’d stopped to consider what he was doing.
---
America woke nearly two months later in a hospital, with an I.V. in his arm and his heartbeat being monitored beside him.
His boss wasn’t happy—he tried to get America sent to a Rehabilitation Center.
America refused.
---
Okay, so this is the end of part 1. I've finished this entire thing, but I don't want to overwhelm anyone, so I'll be posting the rest later.
OP here. I have to say I wasn't sure if my request was well written enough to get the point across, but from the looks of it you understood perfectly. Doing a great job, thank you Anon :)
“Are you all right?” Canada asked, nearly a week after America had finally been declared ‘stable’ enough to return home, but not without someone to watch him. Given that America didn’t seem to trust his citizens anymore (after all, they identified with other nations as far as ethnicity went, and everyone hated America anyways, so what was the point?), a nation had been assigned to watch over him.
Canada hadn’t been particularly happy, either. But he showed up, which is better than any other ‘close’ allies had done.
(Always with condolence letters or supposed-to-be-thoughtful get-well cards or messages left on answering machines. They all seemed so concerned, but if they cared, wouldn’t they show up?)
“Just peachy,” America replied, putting on that same fake smile as always. “Say, how about we do something sort of fun, huh? Maybe get out of here for a while? Go ice-skating or something?”
Canada gave him a quizzical look. “We both have paperwork to get done, and you’re not supposed to do anything dangerous for a while anyways—”
“I’ll be fine, just, I need to get out of this place, you know?” America admitted, but only because the medicine made his brain feel foggy, and it was so hard to think straight when he felt inclined to start chanting some old Mayan war-cry, what year was it, anyways?
“Right,” Canada said, a thoughtful smile on his face. “Maybe later today, all right?”
“Ai, Istas,” America whispered, wondering why his tongue felt so thick around the words, wondering why it sounded so foreign when he was sure he’d just said “Yes, Snow,” because that was what the land above him was, wasn’t it? Just snow and ice, but there was a little boy that looked like him that lived there, so maybe there was something more and—
Canada sighed and brushed the bangs away from America’s forehead. “Go to sleep, all right?”
America nodded and it wasn’t long before the dreams and nightmares were chasing him, swirling around with their varying shades of darkness.
---
“Is he doing better?”
America overheard it one day, recognizing the voice as his vice president’s. He scoffed and turned over, letting the blankets swallow him up yet again.
“I think so,” Canada said cautiously. “I can never be sure, though. One minute he’ll be fine, if a bit distant, and the next he’ll be speaking some ancient native language. I don’t know what to do.”
“If you need to, you can take a break,” the vice-president said, clearly sympathetic to America’s caretaker (and interestingly enough, not to America himself, never to America himself because it just didn’t work like that, it just didn’t). “I’m sure we can find someone else willing to help…”
“No, I’ll stay until my government makes me come home,” Canada said, perhaps a little too quickly.
America felt a surge of gratitude and did his best to improve—he really did—but there was still a crippling feeling of something or another, difficult to place and impossible to remove.
“Are you going to be all right?” Canada finally asked, voice as soft as ever, but there was the unmistakable firm tone to it, the tone that made America remember why he’d been afraid in 1814—and oh, God, he’d lost that war, too, and his people had been so disappointed—and America flinched.
“I keep telling you I’m already fine. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” America snapped, feeling curiously bitter. “You don’t have to stay. Really.”
Canada stared at him for a long while, face hard and unreadable, before finally softening up again. “What’s going on in that head of yours, huh?” he asked with a sigh, gently running his fingers through the hair that needed to be washed, and badly.
America leaned into the touch, and within moments had fallen back asleep.
---
Little by little, America started to come back.
It took him a while, but finally, finally, his old personality started to shine through, and with it came an even stronger aversion to assistance.
“I’m fine,” he all but snapped at Canada while the other nation insisted, insisted on helping him, insisted on guiding him through the house, insisted on helping him into the shower, insisted on going on a walk with him instead of letting him go alone.
“I know, all right?” Canada snapped back, passive-aggression replaced by something almost resembling anger. Real anger, too. America hadn’t seen this side before. It intrigued him even as he was yelled at. “For once in your life, think about someone else! Do you think I like watching you struggle?! No! If I can help, I will, and you’d better be sure that I’m going to whether you like it or not.”
The glare is new, too, and it’s all America can do but back down and allow his brother-nation to help him to his feet, shoving him out the door but never letting go of his hand and back into the world.
Whether he liked it or not.
---
America continued to improve, that day and the next.
A week passed.
Then two.
He didn’t have a relapse, and the longer he spent up and around and not sleeping more than necessary, the more energy he seemed to have. And with the release of energy came the natural cure to depression. That, and it seemed rather impossible to be continuously down when he was up and about, distracted, for most of the day.
“You’re feeling better, eh?” Canada finally asked, after what had to have been three weeks after finally, finally, finally starting to recover. “That’s good.”
America smiled, and it wavered a little, to be sure, but after so long of no genuine smiles, it was worth a thousand of his normal, plastic ones.
“So, what happened back then, anyways? Did you have a mental breakdown or something?”
It’s a question he hasn’t been asked much. The other nations aren’t exactly prying, not with the way they’re expected to act (like trained puppets; it still makes America sick, sick sick sick), but that night, it looks like Canada finally wants an answer.
It’s a few years late, but then again, a few years is more like a few minutes, in nation-time, and America is still hesitant about coming clean.
But a few drinks have loosened his tongue, and he trusts his brother-nation enough to know that he won’t spread the story or treat him different afterwards. So America took another swig of his drink, sat back, facing away from Canada, and finally answered him.
“I just… I dunno. I was real tired of the way things had been going, you know?” America paused, hesitating, but Canada doesn’t interrupt tells him that it’s not a good enough explanation. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just… You know that everyone kind of hated me, right? Most of ‘em still hate me? And they’re all older than me, an’ more mature and everything. But they never really accepted me, you know? They always jus’ pushed me down ‘n then yelled at me whenever I acciden’lly pushed ‘em down wit’ me. They never… ever liked me, an’ they hated me, and y’know ‘s well as I do that we need everyone’s approval t’ feel like real nations. ‘N if we stop feelin’ like nations… What are we, y’know? ‘S why we need people to acknowledge us as nations ‘fore we actually become ‘em, ‘n all.” He took another long swig, then waved his hands, trying to continue. “Anyways. I tried to keep actin’ normal, or at least actin’ like my boss wanted me to act. They’ve got us all on strings, y’know? Don’t piss off this nation, or we might actually go to war, or it’ll be, Try to suck up to this nation, we’re in debt to them and maybe they’ll talk their boss into giving us an extension. That type of thing. You know what I mean?” And it’s an actual question, the way he looks up at Canada and waits for an answer.
Canada doesn’t hesitate to give him one. “Yeah, I know what you mean. But it’s just how things are nowadays, eh?”
“Yeah,” America said, snorting. He took another swig. “I hate it. ‘M the representation of freedom. I should a’least get to be free, myself, right? Anyways, it just got so hard. I started snapping at my boss more, started screwing up on how I was supposed to act for lunch date-things, whatever they are. And… just, it sucks. It really sucks. But finally I asked my boss for… for some vacation time.” Tears filled his eyes, and he scrubbed angrily against them, willing himself to continue. “Ah, I hate that. But, but when I finally got away, I just couldn’t sleep. Everything I’d been trying to keep away from… that I’d tried not to think about, suddenly was there, all the time. Nothing could distract me ‘r anything, an’ I just… I just couldn’t take not sleeping, either, so I started taking some pills. Just a couple, just to sleep, y’know?” His voice wavered, and he glanced back to Canada for some reassurance.
“I—I understand,” Canada said, neutral as always, but at least he didn’t look angry or disapproving. Mostly just disappointed. “I wish you had just… just called me, or something, but… I understand.”
America nodded, grateful. “Yeah—Yeah, I wish I’d called you, too. But… well, you… y’know what happened next, right?”
Canada nodded. “You took almost half a bottle of those pills, America. It’s lucky that you were only out for a month. It could’ve been worse—”
“When I woke up, I was glad,” America interrupted, washing the words down with another sip. “I was… I was really happy to not have had to deal with everything, even if just for that month. I was happy.” Upon seeing Canada’s slightly horrified expression, he quickly added, “’M not happy now, ‘bviously, bu'… Bu’ I was right then. And tha’s all I really cared about at that time.”
Canada just watched him for a minute or two, sipping his own, slightly less pure-alcoholic drink, then sighed. “You scared everyone, you know. Scared me and England half to death. France wasn’t much happier, and Japan and Lithuania were even worse, maybe.”
“Yeah, but you’re the only one who actually came,” America grumbled, feeling rather childish, even as he took yet another swig of his drink, wishing not for the first time that he could just pass out and be done with it, give into the sweet nothingness of sleep.
“But not the only one who wanted to,” Canada pointed out. “Trust me on that.”
“Yeah? Well why didn’t they?” America snapped, suddenly feeling angry. “If they cared so much, why couldn’t they have done the right thing? They know good and well that I’d’ve done the same thing for them if it happened to any of them! Why couldn’t they have just done it for me?!”
“Sit down,” Canada said quietly, and America realized belatedly that he was standing.
“Sorry,” America muttered, sliding back into his chair.
“They didn’t come because they were asked not to,” Canada said patiently, once it appeared that America was no longer likely to stand up and start flipping tables. “Your boss,” he explained. “Your boss… made some pretty dumb decisions, I’m not going to lie. Asking you to act like a trained monkey, letting you stay by yourself after you’d already started to snap, then still keeping you pretty much alone, with only one person… yeah, pretty dumb. But he thought he was doing the right thing.”
“He could’ve asked me what I wanted,” America said, but he didn’t have much enthusiasm at all, and suddenly the table looked rather comfortable, like a wooden pillow. He laid his head down on it, breaths starting to deepen.
“You always sleep when you’re upset, don’t you?” Canada said with a sigh.
“’M not asleep,” America mumbled, but he couldn’t deny that he was tired, and probably unable to lift his head, though that might have partially been because of the alcohol. “Just… restin’.”
“Mm-hmm.” Canada smiled, then gently lifted the glasses from America’s face, further worsening his vision, already blurred from his less-than-sober state. “You gonna remember any of this tomorrow?”
America chuckled. “Don’ think I could forget. But you won’t get this outta me then, y’know.”
“Anything else you want to say, that you won’t say tomorrow?” Canada asked with a small smile.
“Yup,” America said around a yawn. “Wish they’d… Ngh, wish they’d actually act like they were all older’n me. They have such big talk nowadays but I remember when it didn’t matter that I was only here for a couple’a years. When I wasn’t yelled at for bein’ immature, ‘cause they still sorta seemed to like me. Or maybe they just hated me less.” He frowned, blinking his eyes closed for a second longer than he had last time. “I dunno. But… I-I really wish they’d stop hating me. An’ stop makin’ fun of me for bein’ a kid, sort of. ‘M supposed to make mistakes, right?”
Canada gave him a long look, then frowned. “…Right. How about you sleep it off, eh? You’re gonna have a nasty hangover in the morning, but you look tired…”
America smiled. “Yeah. I’mma sleep on th’ couch, okay?”
“Alright, but don’t get any vomit on it when you wake up, ‘kay?” Canada asked with a teasing grin that he hadn’t gotten to use since who-knew-when. However, seeing that America was making no move to the couch, he couldn’t help but step in. “Hey, you gonna actually move there or what?”
“’M tired…”
Canada sighed, then looped one of America’s arms over his shoulder, easing him up from the chair and over to the couch, ignoring the grumbled protests. “Sleep well, alright?”
But America was already gone, sleep claiming him without a second’s notice, and without a notice of the frown that followed him into sleep. Canada let his heart break only when he was sure his twin wouldn’t wake up, and only when he’d already fastened a blanket up to the American nation’s shoulders.
Tomorrow morning, he’d smile and be polite and proper, even as his brother-nation hurled into waste-baskets and he nursed a hangover of his own. But tonight, he’d let himself think things over for a while, forcing himself not to forget the night’s conversation, and making a note not to let it happen again.
It was a while before he fell asleep, but just before he did, he could almost hear a laugh, but it still didn’t live up to the boisterous laughter from before.
Sorry for the general dark theme, and for the kinda crappy ending. However, I needed to practice angst and all, so, uh, yeah. Sorry if I went overboard, and also, I'm really sorry if I made England seem like an asshole. I'd apologize for America's boss, but he's sort of an OC, since I'd never portray a president that disrespectfully, even on anon.
But I really appreciate those of you that commented, or might comment after this part. Because it's really the support of the reader that keeps a writer going, you know?
Anyways, thanks for reading, if you've actually read this far. :) I'll probably de-anon to my de-anon account (SevenServers), so check me out on livejournal sometime.
This angst-junkie was quite happy with the level this hit on the angst-o-meter. Yeah, the ending was a little awkward but not unbearable and it involved brotherly!Canada which makes me dumbly happy.
Author anon here, and thank you very, very much. And I'm not going to lie, the ending could've been done better but I only had so much time and I didn't want it sitting on my computer for forever. But thanks a bunch! :)
Too dark for me to comment, but I thought I'd drop a note to let you know I read it--and even enjoyed it. Just...a little too sad for me to say anything upbeat about it.
Authoranon here... Sorry to hear that. However, as for the problems not being resolved part, well, I have to say that the prompt itself said that it didn't have to have a happy ending, and it's not like I could know what everyone wanted before I started writing.
However, regardless of whether or not you'll ever see things from me again on anon, I'll keep everything in mind. :)
I'll admit right now I was looking for catharsis when I opened this (then again, isn't that what angstfic is for?), and it hit all the right buttons. Felt real to me. Depression isn't something that just goes away... Takes effort, and there was the promise of that in the future. So just saying I didn't mind the ending, cuz actually resolving the problem would extend the length by a huge amount so I understand leaving that out.
Also, I just wanted to post some positive comments after that last one;;; Don't stop writing please~
Author anon here! Thanks so much for the positive comments ('cause I'm not gonna lie, I definitely prefer happier toned comments, you know?). And you understand perfectly! I really didn't want to write five chapters for the problem to get resolved because it would feel way too cheesy. Thanks again for your support! :)
(And don't worry, I'll probably never stop writing.)
This is extraordinarily late (about six months since the last comment!), and I'm fairly sure you probably aren't checking for comments on this anymore and will probably not read mine but regardless, I needed to express my praise for this story!
I very much like the turn of events and the ending. Quite frankly, a thought in the back of my head was weary that this was going to be a story in which it builds up so much angst just to resolve it so unrealistically quick. I'm very happy with the fact that America's depression is taken into real terms.
As for the support, it may have been lacking at times but it could also be taken more towards America's own perception of the situation and as such its more pessimistic. So, really it's not a such a huge thing you should fret about for it can possibly be a slight mixture of third-first person point of view and as such can add a certain style to the tale.
All in all, it really was a great story! I do so hope you continue writing.
I thought that this story did really well in getting the emotions that needed to be conveyed, though I agree with one of the other commenters that the support from the other nations were a bit lacking.
However, given that this is a short piece, and also keeping in mind how difficult it is to support someone with depression can be, I think that their behavior is not unheard of. The ending is perhaps slightly rushed, but really this was fantastic overall. Keep up the good work author-anon!
Awh, thanks so much for the concrit. ^^; I think it mainly shows that I just didn't really give myself much time to think of how I really wanted the other characters to act, therefore they're out of character. And I agree: The ending is really rushed. Thanks again, commentor-anon.
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America/Any (none) - Insecurities
(Anonymous) 2012-11-21 02:41 am (UTC)(link)Bonus 1: Show him using normal day to day contact to prove/verify the hatred towards himself.
Bonus 2: What his comfort activity/escape? (no video games please)
I don't care if there is a pairing or not or even if you want to make it a tragic traumatizing no happy ending. I just want to see some ideas :D
Re: America/Any (none) - Insecurities
(Anonymous) 2012-11-21 02:55 am (UTC)(link)Insecurities and Depression 1a/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-26 04:35 am (UTC)(link)---
Like most days where ‘heroes’ feel down, this was hardly anything special. It was raining and cold and every so often a bolt of lightning would light up the sky. Given that America wasn’t fond of cold weather in the first place, he was understandably less than thrilled when he glanced up from a governmental report to look out the window.
Sighing, he closed the curtains and hoped the thunder wouldn’t be too loud.
Murphy’s Law wouldn’t even allow that small mercy. After all, if it was already an awful day, why on earth should the Universe be inconsistent? So Mother Nature of course had to kick it up a notch, the thunder louder than ever, the rain pouring down at an almost obsessive rate.
America just sighed again, leaning closer to his papers, trying his hardest not to get distracted. It was already hard enough to see, as his eyesight had just been getting worse and he needed a new prescription, but he had a migraine on top of it.
So, naturally, right when he was trying to finish up the report, the lights cut out.
Realizing that there wasn’t much he could do, he just laid backwards and gave up for the day. He had a vague hope that tomorrow would be better, but knew in his heart that, like all the days before it, it’d still be full of people who either didn’t appreciate him, expected too much of him (or worse, too little), or just plain didn’t like him.
He drifted off into an uneasy sleep, the thunder fortunately kept at bay by the loudness of his dreams.
---
America woke late. He knew very well that he’d just been sleeping later and later, and that maybe he should stop, lest he get in the habit of getting more than five hours of sleep as he’d been doing for the longest time, but it just felt so good to escape for so long.
Still, when his boss called only a few minutes after America had woken, the nation couldn’t help but feel a bit depressed.
“Did you finish reading the report I sent you last night?” his boss asked in the ‘Presidential’ tone that America had grown to hate.
“The power cut off,” America tried to explain. “But I got the gist of it. More tax cuts for everyone, huh?”
“If you’d actually finished the paper you’d have known that I also proposed a few more trading regulations. We can slow the debt accumulation by at least fifteen percent—”
“Yeah, I know,” the nation replied, rubbing at his forehead. “But we need to start paying it off as soon as possible. The economy isn’t going to get better until we fix it. And I don’t want to just keep piling it up for the next generation!” He sighed, realizing how harsh he’d sounded. “Sorry, sir. I’m just… really, really tired of feeling the economy get worse. It’s about to the point where it’ll make me physically ill, you know?”
The president stayed quiet for a while. “Well, maybe if you actually showed up to the meetings in D.C. and proposed these things, you’d get some more ground.”
America tried to protest—tried to tell him that he wasn’t supposed to interfere—but before he could get more than a strangled “But sir!” out, the president hung up.
He stared at the phone for a while, wishing he had the nerve to call back, to yell at his president and say that if he couldn’t even treat his nation’s representation right then how was he supposed to treat the actual people right, but America felt too tired to much of anything.
He fell back against his pillow, fully intending to sleep the rest of the day away, if just for a break.
Dreams and nightmares and the vaguely creepy, vaguely twisted parts in between kept waking him up, though, and by midday, he gave up.
He scanned over the report again, fully expecting to see an actual proposal of trade regulation. Near the bottom, he saw it—half a sentence, maybe, and used words such as ‘if’ and ‘perhaps’ to explain it.
America crumpled up the paper and threw it away.
Insecurities and Depression 1b/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-26 04:37 am (UTC)(link)World Meetings had become subdued affairs. There was less arguing as passive-aggressive commenting, and any physical violence was met with a strict appointment with bodyguards.
America couldn’t help but miss the old ways, when everyone was varied and no one got confused for someone else—when everyone proudly hailed their country’s flag at the opening ceremonies, and brought a specialized dessert for the lunch break. Anything but what it was now, really—where everyone wore a suit with perhaps just a touch of their individuality, and nations were expected to leave the premises for their lunch.
What he missed most, though, was probably the debates himself. Sure, they rarely got anywhere, but no one had to second-guess who was siding with who, and why someone was pushing the reform that they were pushing. No one had to guess at much of anything; the nations all but screamed their opinions at eachother, all but beat eachother over the head with their ideals.
America felt more depressed than usual, though, upon realizing that he was the host.
It meant that, not only would he have to hear people muttering about his lack of cultured restaurants and ‘uncouth hotel staff’, but he’d have to accommodate the snide remarks, take them in stride, and get a lecture from his boss not to do the same when in other countries. As if he would to start with.
Finally—finally—the first day of the conferences came, and he could just get it over with and be done with it for the next month or so.
As always, he was nervous with his speech—he’d never been good at them, much less when he had to be as indirect as possible, to avoid “upsetting an ally”—and, as always, it was that nervousness that was his downfall.
“Uh—Good morning,” he said, cursing himself for the mistake he’d already made, cursing himself for causing the frown from his boss that he just knew was there as the man watched from a separate room. “And welcome to good ol’ New York City, yeah? As I’m sure everyone knows, we have a lot to get covered today, so I release the stand to, um,” he glanced down at his notes, “Switzerland.”
And he could have sprinted back to his seat, could have fallen flat on his face, he was so happy to get to sit down, to have at least an hour and a half of taking notes before a lunch break, and then another two hours of note-taking before he made his presentation. After that, he’d just have to take more notes and then close the meeting and—
Someone elbowed him in the side, shortly after Switzerland’s presentation, and America glanced up with startled eyes to find England, looking coldly disappointed as usual.
“Can—Can I help you?” America asked carefully, nearly choking mid-sentence.
“My boss has requested that we dine together,” England said carefully. “And given that I’m hardly one to neglect diplomacy, I’m inclined to follow his suggestion.” He paused, looking almost disdainful as he added, “And for God’s sake, pick a decent restaurant for once.”
America just stared at him for a moment, then forced his lips into a reasonably-believable smile. “Not a problem. My boss has been worrying about relations with your nation as well.”
England gave him a semi-curious look(but not particularly interested—because it would be terrible, wouldn’t it?), but seemed to shrug it off fairly easily. “Whatever you’d like. Though I must say, if your boss is lecturing you about it, oughtn’t you have said something earlier?”
And with that, Germany cleared his throat and motioned for the in-between speakers chatter to die down. It did, and then the presentations moved on.
Insecurities and Depression 1c/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-26 04:38 am (UTC)(link)“So, have things been going well for you?” America asked, hoping the atmosphere at the restaurant was quiet enough for his companion. He’d picked this place specially, hoping it would be high-enough class.
It appeared to meet most of England’s qualifications, but nevertheless, something always seemed to be wrong with it, and this one was no exception, judging by England’s previous comment about the absurdity of the portion sizes. “Fairly well. My economy is slowly improving, no thanks to your bloody economic crisis. However, I’m not the one with a sixteen trillion dollar debt so, I’m afraid I must ask—how are you doing?”
America forced out a chuckle, but it came out more nervous than anything else. He mentally slapped himself for losing composure. “It—It’s not too much of a problem, really. My boss is pushing to slow the debt rate, if nothing else, but I really wish he’d start paying things off. China wants my hide on a silver platter,” he said, trying to inject some humor into the conversation, but failed miserably.
England just frowned. “Perhaps if you weren’t so hard-pressed on maintaining traditional Capitalism, you wouldn’t be in such a tight situation.”
“I couldn’t do that to my people,” America said firmly. “And if I’m not mistaken, you were just as much a proponent of Capitalism as I was, especially in the Second World War. And since you’ve never said a harsh word about Churchill, I don’t think you should be trying to tear down what he stood for—”
“No need to get so defensive,” England said, raising an eyebrow at the strong answer. “I was just making a statement is all. Really, America, you should learn to reign in that temper of yours.”
America stared at him for a long while, but before he could control his tongue long enough to make a reply that wasn’t rude, the server came and delivered their respective dishes.
After England made a particularly snarky comment about the size of the portions, yet again, America stopped bothering to reply at all.
Insecurities and Depression 1d/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-26 04:41 am (UTC)(link)“You were rather rude to him, you know,” America’s boss said later, after the meeting had ended (and he’d screwed up his presentation and closing speech and damn, why did he always have to do that?). “You should apologize.”
“He was pretty rude to me, too, in case you didn’t hear that part of the story,” America snapped, tired of the bias and the high expectations.
“You’re better than that, though,” his boss tried to explain, tried to convince him.
America just scowled at him. “Glad you think so. I’ll make sure to keep the rest of your brilliant theories in-mind at all times, because they’re just so useful, aren’t they?”
“Hey—” the president started to say, but his nation just gave him a long look, and it seemed to silence him.
“I’m taking my vacation. Since I haven’t taken one in almost two years, I don’t think anyone is going to mind if I extend it a little,” America said firmly. “All I’m asking for is three weeks, boss. Three weeks, and then I’ll go back to… whatever it is you guys seem to want me to do.”
His boss considered him a moment, then finally shrugged and said, “All right, then. Three weeks, America. Three weeks. And try not to make it expensive—we don’t want to give the wrong impression, and this is on government money, after all.”
And with that, the man proceeded to enter his private limousine, leaving America far behind.
---
Perhaps isolation hadn’t been the best solution to his problems, America mused, a few days into his vacation. But he’d needed it, he’d needed it so badly it physically hurt. As far as he was concerned, he couldn’t take one more meeting, one more report, one more anything.
Still, having so much spare time forced him to acknowledge some things he’d been repressing for he didn’t even know how long.
Absently, he traced a hand over his middle, first berating himself for neglecting personal fitness—as he could swear he’d been thinner a few weeks ago; perhaps he should skip dinner tonight, too, and maybe lunch the following day?—and then, a moment later, feeling the faded scar that circled his waist.
It was jagged, to be sure, but the jaggedness more represented the states borders than someone just shifting a knife up and down and back and forth across his middle. He wouldn’t have let someone do that to him—wouldn’t have let someone do that to him without a fight—but some Nation-details were unexplainable. This was one of them.
Still, the memory of it made him hurt, a deep, almost physical ache.
He hadn’t even been a nation a hundred years before his country was nearly split in half. And Reconstruction had taken so many years, and he’d gotten no foreign aid because no one cared—
No one cared even in modern times, he couldn’t help but remember. No matter how often he would provide resources and people to physically help nations dealing with disasters, it seemed like the favor would never be returned. The last time he’d gotten people even offering to help him was with the BP Oil Spill, and a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if it was just for the sake of nicking some oil out of it.
Feeling particularly bitter, he didn’t bother to pick up the phone when it started to ring, instead turning the power button off so it wouldn’t bother him in the future.
Insecurities and Depression 1e/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-26 04:41 am (UTC)(link)Five days in, he started having trouble sleeping.
Thoughts were keeping him awake—thoughts and memories and insecurities, but mostly insecurities.
He couldn’t remember the last time a nation had said something kind to him. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time anyone, citizens included, had said anything remotely positive. Sure, the Fourth of July was reasonable, but that was all fanfare, and people just used it as an excuse to take a day off and eat ‘American’ food.
And even then, he got in trouble for even mentioning the Fourth of July at meetings. The other nations would either scoff at him for being so childish or tell him to perhaps spend half as much money on repaying debts as celebrating nationalism and maybe he wouldn’t be in such a bad financial position.
Then there were the memories—the night-terrors, the normal nightmares, the vaguely disturbing dreams that always came about after watching a television special on his ‘history’.
So, no, he wasn’t exactly sleeping well, and, really, it wasn’t that big of a deal to him when he finally gave in and picked up some sleeping pills.
He took three more than necessary the first night, and to his pleasant surprise, he’d managed to sleep without too many dreams, and waste away nearly twelve hours.
So he started doing it every night.
Within a week, he’d managed to sleep away nearly three fifths of his time. But if just didn’t feel like enough. Perhaps he could just do away with himself and sleep until the end of the year? Being comatose actually sounded quite lovely. It would mean that he couldn’t hear any insults, and that he’d finally be thin-thin-thin, because he couldn’t eat, couldn’t get called a pig, couldn’t be called obnoxious if he couldn’t yell at everyone and—
He downed most of the bottle before he’d stopped to consider what he was doing.
---
America woke nearly two months later in a hospital, with an I.V. in his arm and his heartbeat being monitored beside him.
His boss wasn’t happy—he tried to get America sent to a Rehabilitation Center.
America refused.
---
Okay, so this is the end of part 1. I've finished this entire thing, but I don't want to overwhelm anyone, so I'll be posting the rest later.
Re: Insecurities and Depression 1e/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-26 06:29 am (UTC)(link)I'll be looking forward to the rest.
Re: Insecurities and Depression 1e/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-26 02:17 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Insecurities and Depression 1e/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-01 11:30 pm (UTC)(link)Insecurities and Depression 2a/2
(Anonymous) 2012-11-27 12:09 am (UTC)(link)“Are you all right?” Canada asked, nearly a week after America had finally been declared ‘stable’ enough to return home, but not without someone to watch him. Given that America didn’t seem to trust his citizens anymore (after all, they identified with other nations as far as ethnicity went, and everyone hated America anyways, so what was the point?), a nation had been assigned to watch over him.
Canada hadn’t been particularly happy, either. But he showed up, which is better than any other ‘close’ allies had done.
(Always with condolence letters or supposed-to-be-thoughtful get-well cards or messages left on answering machines. They all seemed so concerned, but if they cared, wouldn’t they show up?)
“Just peachy,” America replied, putting on that same fake smile as always. “Say, how about we do something sort of fun, huh? Maybe get out of here for a while? Go ice-skating or something?”
Canada gave him a quizzical look. “We both have paperwork to get done, and you’re not supposed to do anything dangerous for a while anyways—”
“I’ll be fine, just, I need to get out of this place, you know?” America admitted, but only because the medicine made his brain feel foggy, and it was so hard to think straight when he felt inclined to start chanting some old Mayan war-cry, what year was it, anyways?
“Right,” Canada said, a thoughtful smile on his face. “Maybe later today, all right?”
“Ai, Istas,” America whispered, wondering why his tongue felt so thick around the words, wondering why it sounded so foreign when he was sure he’d just said “Yes, Snow,” because that was what the land above him was, wasn’t it? Just snow and ice, but there was a little boy that looked like him that lived there, so maybe there was something more and—
Canada sighed and brushed the bangs away from America’s forehead. “Go to sleep, all right?”
America nodded and it wasn’t long before the dreams and nightmares were chasing him, swirling around with their varying shades of darkness.
---
“Is he doing better?”
America overheard it one day, recognizing the voice as his vice president’s. He scoffed and turned over, letting the blankets swallow him up yet again.
“I think so,” Canada said cautiously. “I can never be sure, though. One minute he’ll be fine, if a bit distant, and the next he’ll be speaking some ancient native language. I don’t know what to do.”
“If you need to, you can take a break,” the vice-president said, clearly sympathetic to America’s caretaker (and interestingly enough, not to America himself, never to America himself because it just didn’t work like that, it just didn’t). “I’m sure we can find someone else willing to help…”
“No, I’ll stay until my government makes me come home,” Canada said, perhaps a little too quickly.
America felt a surge of gratitude and did his best to improve—he really did—but there was still a crippling feeling of something or another, difficult to place and impossible to remove.
Insecurities and Depression 2b/2
(Anonymous) 2012-11-27 12:12 am (UTC)(link)“Are you going to be all right?” Canada finally asked, voice as soft as ever, but there was the unmistakable firm tone to it, the tone that made America remember why he’d been afraid in 1814—and oh, God, he’d lost that war, too, and his people had been so disappointed—and America flinched.
“I keep telling you I’m already fine. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” America snapped, feeling curiously bitter. “You don’t have to stay. Really.”
Canada stared at him for a long while, face hard and unreadable, before finally softening up again. “What’s going on in that head of yours, huh?” he asked with a sigh, gently running his fingers through the hair that needed to be washed, and badly.
America leaned into the touch, and within moments had fallen back asleep.
---
Little by little, America started to come back.
It took him a while, but finally, finally, his old personality started to shine through, and with it came an even stronger aversion to assistance.
“I’m fine,” he all but snapped at Canada while the other nation insisted, insisted on helping him, insisted on guiding him through the house, insisted on helping him into the shower, insisted on going on a walk with him instead of letting him go alone.
“I know, all right?” Canada snapped back, passive-aggression replaced by something almost resembling anger. Real anger, too. America hadn’t seen this side before. It intrigued him even as he was yelled at. “For once in your life, think about someone else! Do you think I like watching you struggle?! No! If I can help, I will, and you’d better be sure that I’m going to whether you like it or not.”
The glare is new, too, and it’s all America can do but back down and allow his brother-nation to help him to his feet, shoving him out the door but never letting go of his hand and back into the world.
Whether he liked it or not.
---
America continued to improve, that day and the next.
A week passed.
Then two.
He didn’t have a relapse, and the longer he spent up and around and not sleeping more than necessary, the more energy he seemed to have. And with the release of energy came the natural cure to depression. That, and it seemed rather impossible to be continuously down when he was up and about, distracted, for most of the day.
“You’re feeling better, eh?” Canada finally asked, after what had to have been three weeks after finally, finally, finally starting to recover. “That’s good.”
America smiled, and it wavered a little, to be sure, but after so long of no genuine smiles, it was worth a thousand of his normal, plastic ones.
Insecurities and Depression 2c/2
(Anonymous) 2012-11-27 12:15 am (UTC)(link)“So, what happened back then, anyways? Did you have a mental breakdown or something?”
It’s a question he hasn’t been asked much. The other nations aren’t exactly prying, not with the way they’re expected to act (like trained puppets; it still makes America sick, sick sick sick), but that night, it looks like Canada finally wants an answer.
It’s a few years late, but then again, a few years is more like a few minutes, in nation-time, and America is still hesitant about coming clean.
But a few drinks have loosened his tongue, and he trusts his brother-nation enough to know that he won’t spread the story or treat him different afterwards. So America took another swig of his drink, sat back, facing away from Canada, and finally answered him.
“I just… I dunno. I was real tired of the way things had been going, you know?” America paused, hesitating, but Canada doesn’t interrupt tells him that it’s not a good enough explanation. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just… You know that everyone kind of hated me, right? Most of ‘em still hate me? And they’re all older than me, an’ more mature and everything. But they never really accepted me, you know? They always jus’ pushed me down ‘n then yelled at me whenever I acciden’lly pushed ‘em down wit’ me. They never… ever liked me, an’ they hated me, and y’know ‘s well as I do that we need everyone’s approval t’ feel like real nations. ‘N if we stop feelin’ like nations… What are we, y’know? ‘S why we need people to acknowledge us as nations ‘fore we actually become ‘em, ‘n all.” He took another long swig, then waved his hands, trying to continue. “Anyways. I tried to keep actin’ normal, or at least actin’ like my boss wanted me to act. They’ve got us all on strings, y’know? Don’t piss off this nation, or we might actually go to war, or it’ll be, Try to suck up to this nation, we’re in debt to them and maybe they’ll talk their boss into giving us an extension. That type of thing. You know what I mean?” And it’s an actual question, the way he looks up at Canada and waits for an answer.
Canada doesn’t hesitate to give him one. “Yeah, I know what you mean. But it’s just how things are nowadays, eh?”
“Yeah,” America said, snorting. He took another swig. “I hate it. ‘M the representation of freedom. I should a’least get to be free, myself, right? Anyways, it just got so hard. I started snapping at my boss more, started screwing up on how I was supposed to act for lunch date-things, whatever they are. And… just, it sucks. It really sucks. But finally I asked my boss for… for some vacation time.” Tears filled his eyes, and he scrubbed angrily against them, willing himself to continue. “Ah, I hate that. But, but when I finally got away, I just couldn’t sleep. Everything I’d been trying to keep away from… that I’d tried not to think about, suddenly was there, all the time. Nothing could distract me ‘r anything, an’ I just… I just couldn’t take not sleeping, either, so I started taking some pills. Just a couple, just to sleep, y’know?” His voice wavered, and he glanced back to Canada for some reassurance.
“I—I understand,” Canada said, neutral as always, but at least he didn’t look angry or disapproving. Mostly just disappointed. “I wish you had just… just called me, or something, but… I understand.”
America nodded, grateful. “Yeah—Yeah, I wish I’d called you, too. But… well, you… y’know what happened next, right?”
Canada nodded. “You took almost half a bottle of those pills, America. It’s lucky that you were only out for a month. It could’ve been worse—”
“When I woke up, I was glad,” America interrupted, washing the words down with another sip. “I was… I was really happy to not have had to deal with everything, even if just for that month. I was happy.” Upon seeing Canada’s slightly horrified expression, he quickly added, “’M not happy now, ‘bviously, bu'… Bu’ I was right then. And tha’s all I really cared about at that time.”
Canada just watched him for a minute or two, sipping his own, slightly less pure-alcoholic drink, then sighed. “You scared everyone, you know. Scared me and England half to death. France wasn’t much happier, and Japan and Lithuania were even worse, maybe.”
Insecurities and Depression 2e/2
(Anonymous) 2012-11-27 12:17 am (UTC)(link)“But not the only one who wanted to,” Canada pointed out. “Trust me on that.”
“Yeah? Well why didn’t they?” America snapped, suddenly feeling angry. “If they cared so much, why couldn’t they have done the right thing? They know good and well that I’d’ve done the same thing for them if it happened to any of them! Why couldn’t they have just done it for me?!”
“Sit down,” Canada said quietly, and America realized belatedly that he was standing.
“Sorry,” America muttered, sliding back into his chair.
“They didn’t come because they were asked not to,” Canada said patiently, once it appeared that America was no longer likely to stand up and start flipping tables. “Your boss,” he explained. “Your boss… made some pretty dumb decisions, I’m not going to lie. Asking you to act like a trained monkey, letting you stay by yourself after you’d already started to snap, then still keeping you pretty much alone, with only one person… yeah, pretty dumb. But he thought he was doing the right thing.”
“He could’ve asked me what I wanted,” America said, but he didn’t have much enthusiasm at all, and suddenly the table looked rather comfortable, like a wooden pillow. He laid his head down on it, breaths starting to deepen.
“You always sleep when you’re upset, don’t you?” Canada said with a sigh.
“’M not asleep,” America mumbled, but he couldn’t deny that he was tired, and probably unable to lift his head, though that might have partially been because of the alcohol. “Just… restin’.”
“Mm-hmm.” Canada smiled, then gently lifted the glasses from America’s face, further worsening his vision, already blurred from his less-than-sober state. “You gonna remember any of this tomorrow?”
America chuckled. “Don’ think I could forget. But you won’t get this outta me then, y’know.”
“Anything else you want to say, that you won’t say tomorrow?” Canada asked with a small smile.
“Yup,” America said around a yawn. “Wish they’d… Ngh, wish they’d actually act like they were all older’n me. They have such big talk nowadays but I remember when it didn’t matter that I was only here for a couple’a years. When I wasn’t yelled at for bein’ immature, ‘cause they still sorta seemed to like me. Or maybe they just hated me less.” He frowned, blinking his eyes closed for a second longer than he had last time. “I dunno. But… I-I really wish they’d stop hating me. An’ stop makin’ fun of me for bein’ a kid, sort of. ‘M supposed to make mistakes, right?”
Canada gave him a long look, then frowned. “…Right. How about you sleep it off, eh? You’re gonna have a nasty hangover in the morning, but you look tired…”
America smiled. “Yeah. I’mma sleep on th’ couch, okay?”
“Alright, but don’t get any vomit on it when you wake up, ‘kay?” Canada asked with a teasing grin that he hadn’t gotten to use since who-knew-when. However, seeing that America was making no move to the couch, he couldn’t help but step in. “Hey, you gonna actually move there or what?”
“’M tired…”
Canada sighed, then looped one of America’s arms over his shoulder, easing him up from the chair and over to the couch, ignoring the grumbled protests. “Sleep well, alright?”
But America was already gone, sleep claiming him without a second’s notice, and without a notice of the frown that followed him into sleep.
Canada let his heart break only when he was sure his twin wouldn’t wake up, and only when he’d already fastened a blanket up to the American nation’s shoulders.
Tomorrow morning, he’d smile and be polite and proper, even as his brother-nation hurled into waste-baskets and he nursed a hangover of his own. But tonight, he’d let himself think things over for a while, forcing himself not to forget the night’s conversation, and making a note not to let it happen again.
It was a while before he fell asleep, but just before he did, he could almost hear a laugh, but it still didn’t live up to the boisterous laughter from before.
He’d fix things as soon as he could.
---
End
Insecurities and Depression End Notes
(Anonymous) 2012-11-27 12:20 am (UTC)(link)But I really appreciate those of you that commented, or might comment after this part. Because it's really the support of the reader that keeps a writer going, you know?
Anyways, thanks for reading, if you've actually read this far. :) I'll probably de-anon to my de-anon account (SevenServers), so check me out on livejournal sometime.
Re: Insecurities and Depression End Notes
(Anonymous) 2012-11-27 06:15 am (UTC)(link)Re: Insecurities and Depression End Notes
(Anonymous) 2012-12-01 11:31 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Insecurities and Depression End Notes
(Anonymous) 2012-11-27 06:35 am (UTC)(link)Re: Insecurities and Depression End Notes
(Anonymous) 2012-12-01 03:07 am (UTC)(link)Re: Insecurities and Depression End Notes
(Anonymous) 2012-12-01 03:35 am (UTC)(link)However, regardless of whether or not you'll ever see things from me again on anon, I'll keep everything in mind. :)
Re: Insecurities and Depression End Notes
(Anonymous) 2012-12-01 05:21 pm (UTC)(link)Also, I just wanted to post some positive comments after that last one;;; Don't stop writing please~
Re: Insecurities and Depression End Notes
(Anonymous) 2012-12-01 11:29 pm (UTC)(link)(And don't worry, I'll probably never stop writing.)
Re: Insecurities and Depression End Notes
(Anonymous) 2013-06-14 03:47 am (UTC)(link)I very much like the turn of events and the ending. Quite frankly, a thought in the back of my head was weary that this was going to be a story in which it builds up so much angst just to resolve it so unrealistically quick. I'm very happy with the fact that America's depression is taken into real terms.
As for the support, it may have been lacking at times but it could also be taken more towards America's own perception of the situation and as such its more pessimistic. So, really it's not a such a huge thing you should fret about for it can possibly be a slight mixture of third-first person point of view and as such can add a certain style to the tale.
All in all, it really was a great story! I do so hope you continue writing.
Re: Insecurities and Depression 2e/2
(Anonymous) 2012-12-04 03:41 pm (UTC)(link)However, given that this is a short piece, and also keeping in mind how difficult it is to support someone with depression can be, I think that their behavior is not unheard of. The ending is perhaps slightly rushed, but really this was fantastic overall. Keep up the good work author-anon!
Re: Insecurities and Depression 2e/2
(Anonymous) 2012-12-05 09:53 pm (UTC)(link)