A Countryhumans America Short Story.

No he does not have hair in this one XD
The above picture is my personal design for the patriot!

Warning it's a sad one   ;_;

/~\

         "Look, we know you've been down lately," Canada urged his brother to get up from his bathtub, "so we booked a table at a nice bar."

         "You don't book tables at bars, you just show up," America mumbled, refusing to leave the tub of cold water that soaked his clothes. He couldn't even go outside anymore without his people screaming at him about how much of a failure he was. The riots, the lockdowns, stupid laws he had no control over. He was only the embodiment, he had no dealings in the politics of his land. He was forced to face the consequences that in truth, had nothing to do with him. He couldn't even tell most that he can't do anything, that if he did, he'd be breaking laws set in place by his own race. Holy Roman Empire was destroyed because of intervening, so were so many tribes and peoples... he didn't want that for his own population, to spiral them into ruin... but it seemed they were doing it on their own sometimes.
"And I don't want to show up."

         "You've been in this bathtub for three hours," Mexico poked his head around the door, a bored expression on his face, "We're going out."

         "It's a better coping mechanism than going out, getting drunk or doing drugs, ya' addict."

         "Keep my stereotype out of this!" Mexico huffed.

         "Forgive him," Canada sighed, "We all know no one has control over what they do sometimes."

Mexico wandered off, mumbling something along the lines of 'stupid humans' or some-such insult.

     After another battle of wits and perhaps some strength in getting America out of the bathtub, the star clad patriot looked to the suit on his bed, cocking a brow as he looked to his younger brother.

         "I thought you said we were going to a bar-"

         "We are," he shrugged, "It's Swing Night. We know how nostalgic you can get sometimes, so we thought we'd bring you somewhere you can experience your glory days again."

America frowned, looking back to the black ensemble before him. It had been awhile since he went out somewhere nice...

     The group soon came together, finding Spain, France and a few others had joined in as well, but America was rather sour.

         "Don't be surprised if they only play 'In the Mood' over and over, or some mixed versions," he straightened his collar, "Most of it will probably be rap afterwards anyway. Or country, something the kids like nowadays."

         "Yikes, you sound like Britain," France giggled, her swing dress bobbing as she flew up the few steps to the door, "just have a few drinks and let up my dear boy! We'll swing the night away!"

         "How much wine did she have before coming with you?" America asked Spain, who chuckled.

         "None. Though I may have slipped a little something in her sparkling water before we came. She was more of a stick in the mud than you before getting here."

America mumbled something about Spaniards, but the man was already in the building.

         "See? Told you-"

America sighed as they walked in to the blaring sound of 'In the Mood'. Needless to say he was unamused and frankly already tired of humans before seeing a single one down the hallway. He trailed behind, bumping into Canada before he realized they had stopped. About to say a profanity, the down veteran looked past them, seeing a sight he hadn't in along time.

     Everyone was in their old Swing Dance regalia, dancing the night away to the beat in the golden glow as a young woman DJ'd for the forgotten and neglected generation so many made fun of. The generation that saw war, the generation no one will listen to because they don't agree with the modern ideals. Men and women well in their 90′s laughed as they swung on their partners, some being rather adventurous as they were swung over another's shoulder. A few waved at the Countries, smiling widely as others ushered them onto the dance floor.

         "Don't be scared," a petite woman, hair grey but long, voice youthful though her cheeks sagged, beckoned them to follow, "come on in!"

         "Uh... I think we found the wrong place-" Mexico mumbled out.

         "No, no, this is right," America stepped out of the small crowd of Countryhumans, "This is perfect."

He offered a hand to the woman, who giggled before taking it and practically dragged him across the dance floor.

     The audience clapped as America danced his heart out, never being left alone, always having a joyful partner to keep that smile on his face. The others took a little longer to warm up to the idea of dancing with a man or woman that looked so much older, though they themselves were practically ancient. Either way, they all had the time of their lives, America being the bravest as he sung a song or two, his voice as smooth as Frank Sinatra's, 'The Coffee Song' keeping the smiles on his audience's face as they danced along and clapped, stomped their feet and twirled.

         "I'd like to thank you all," he laughed into the microphone, "For this wonderful night. I... I hadn't had this much fun in years..."

The room became quiet as the man wept, the young woman who organized the event coming up with a tissue, a soft smile on her face as he took it.

         "So many still love you. We know it's not your fault. It's corrupt people and stupid human nature," she chuckled, "Just know that when you need a break, you can dance the night away."

     America woke up in his bathtub, looking around with tears in his eyes, a stark difference to the freezing water that surrounded him. He stumbled out, looking to his empty bed.

A dream. Go figure.

The wounded soldier stumbled on to change, only to make a detour out of his room, not caring that he had no clue to where his feet took him, or that his car was now soaked in the front seat. He only paid attention when his soaked feet hit concrete, the building familiar, but dilapidated. Boards hung loosely, the stairs were rotted, and the inside smelled of watered down smoke. He followed the hallway, turning, like in his dream, only his audience was silence, ghosts of a good time staring back at him menacingly. The dance floor was flooded with lingering rain, the middle sunken in like an upturned umbrella.

         "It burned down," America jumped at the elderly voice, his breath labored, obviously having smoked, "three years ago. No one has the money to bring her back to life."

         "Who owns it?" America questioned.

         "The bank. I was going to give it to my granddaughter but- I'm afraid no one will higher an old veteran like me. I couldn't keep up with the payments."

     America wiped tears from his face once more, finally paying full attention to the old man behind him. His hair was short, the usual military cut he had adopted. The Medal of Honor hung around his neck, dress uniform well kept, though baggy around his older frame.

         "What- uh, how did you earn it?" he questioned.

         "I'm surprised you asked," the man chuckled with an amused smile, not needing an explanation to what the embodiment was referring to, "My platoon was gunned down, so I played the rabbit, jumping from hole to hole until I could properly dispose of the Jap' throwing the artillery around like water balloons. I was just being stupid, now that I look back... a young Private." He sighed, chuckling to himself, "ah, but no one cares to ask anymore. Most don't know what it is."

         "Much less what it takes to earn one," America nodded, standing a bit straighter, "I thank you for your service, sir. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for your part."

         "No problem, Uncle Sam." The old soldier saluted with a lopsided grin.

America looked around again before stepping toward the man, placing a hand on his back.

         "I'll bring this place back. Where people can dance the night away."