Hetalia One-Shots

America's Mother (Part Two) (OLD STORY)

(#doing a part two because I can) (btw this is based off of the picture that I put with the chapter)

~2016~

*America's POV*

  America sighed and rolled his eyes as England babbled on and on and on. Unfortunately, he sighed louder than he meant to, because a couple of heads turned, and England stopped talking to glare at him. "Is there a problem, America?", he asked irritably. America, who had already had a bad start to his day and had woken up too late to get breakfast, sarcastically snapped back: "Nooooo, not at all."

  The snide remark caused the remaining heads to turn and stare at the normally bubbly nation in surprise. England crossed his arms. "I'm sorry, am I boring you?", he asked bitterly. America muttered something not-so-nice under his breath, then sat up a bit straighter. "No, you're not boring me. It's just that your plan is stupid." England scoffed. "You're one to talk about being bloody stupid! Your plans always consist of heroes, or movies, or burgers! You're the dumbest one in the room, and everybody knows it!" America felt anger flood his body momentarily, but it was quickly replaced by sadness and guilt.

  He opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly something filled his mind. "Gvgeyu'i, atstutsa." It was instantly translated to English deep in his mind: "I love you, my son." He knew that language, he was born knowing that language - what was it? The female voice had gently told him that she loves him and had called him her son, but what had she said?!? The words she had just uttered had quickly escaped his thoughts, but he had a haunting image of a woman, but what did she look like?!? She was there, but she wasn't. This all happened in a second or two, and America quickly snapped his mouth shut and swallowed loudly.

  He was suddenly brought back to reality by somebody calling his name. "America? Lad, are you alright?" America blinked and looked up with England, whose eyes were filled with guilt. "Y-yeah, dude. Why wouldn't I be?" France (who was sitting beside him) put a hand on the American's shoulder. "You grew very pale, mon ami. Is everyzhing ok?" America nodded quickly, and stared down at the table, attempting to conjure up the image again.

  The confused nation was so absorbed in his own thoughts, that he didn't notice England sitting in the chair on the other side of him, or the worried glances getting cast in his direction, or even when Germany loudly announced that it was time for a lunch break. Suddenly, through his mind, again: "Hanvdadiasgo?" Then, once again, the native language was gone, leaving English. "Do you remember?" "No, no, what a stupid question to ask, lady! Of course I don't remember!!... I want to remember..."

  A flash went through his mind. Leaves blurring around him. Blood splattered on dirt. Red, chalky paint on small fingertips - did they belong to him? Then the images were gone, lost. He squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them wide with surprise as he heard a voice again, then realized it was only England's. "Come on, you bloody git, tell me what's wrong! I've said sorry countless times! Are you going through another economic depression?!" America stared off into space, wishing that the concerned nation would shut his mouth so that he could remember.

  Tuning out the British nation, he listened hard. He thought hard; harder than he'd ever thought. For a second, he thought his brain might explode, he was thinking so hard. Wait- there it was again! "Stiyu." Then he saw her face, bloodstained and tear stained and pained, but filled with love, as she spoke that word in his native language, to his small, quivering self from way back when-

  He gasped out loud at the image and the word that was floating in his head. "Amérique, why are you crying? Please tell us..." America turned to see that France and England were kneeling down side by side, next to him. England was soothingly rubbing America's arm, and it occurred to the shaken up nation that he was sobbing. He sniffled and brought a hand up to his face, wiping away the tears, his chest heaving with every breath he took. France began patting his back, shushing him gently. "What's wrong, lad?", England asked softly.

  America shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. "N-nothing..." France made a face. "But, mon ami, you are crying! Somezhing must be wrong..." America took a shuddering breath. "I'm ok. Nothing's wrong, really dudes," he whispered. "I was just.... Thinking about something." England slightly tipped his head to one side. "What were you thinking about?" America looked away. "Just something from a long time ago." He sighed deeply, and stood up. "Well, I'm gonna go get some lunch, dudes," he said with a soft smile. Without waiting for a reply, he turned around and walked out the door.

"Stiyu; be strong. I love you, my son."

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