Thank you so much for waiting so patiently for this chapter! I'm very grateful for all the "good lucks" on my exams and happy for the understanding! I'm really pumped to be writing again. So thank you for reading, hope you enjoy!

America woke up in a familiar room, slightly panicking as he realized he was no longer in Russia's house. How long had he been sleeping? He looked around and a wave of nostalgia rushed over him, sending shivers down his spine. He was in his old room. The old room that America used to sleep in as a child when he went to visit England. The room looked like it hadn't been touched since the last time America had stayed there when he was just a child. He noticed the untouched box of tea that England had gifted him when he had lost his first tooth and laughed. It was wild, how the old room brought back so many memories. His eyes slightly watered at the thought of his childhood. It was a tough subject for him to handle and he often repressed the thoughts of his short upbringing and the hardships he faced as a new nation. The old room and the memories that haunted it was a bit too much for him to handle.

Being in the room brought back pain from years ago that he had prayed not to experience again in his life. He started to feel short-breathed, a wave of panic rushing through him. He never wanted to remember this. Who was doing this to him, and why? He shot up from the bed, heading over to the door that he had slammed so many times in England's face during the beginning of his rebellion. He placed his hand on the doorknob and swung it open, revealing England's old hallway. As he stood in the doorway of his old room and stared at the green wallpaper plastered on the walls of the hallway, a memory of adolescence flashed through his brain:

"I don't know why you're acting so strange America. You're so angry all the time and you are so mean to me. After everything I've done for you I can't believe how irrational you're being."

"I'm not being irrational. I'm being realistic. At some point I'm going to be independent. Maybe you're just too dense to realize it."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I want to be independent. That's what I mean."

"You can't. You're too inexperienced, too young."

"I'm sick of you controlling me like I'm some sort of puppet. I'm going home. And I'm never coming back."

"You're being ridiculous! I love you and always will. If you leave me I'll go mad."

"Go mad then."

America flashed back to reality as he heard a door open downstairs. He suddenly grew anxious, all his repressed feelings suddenly came back. During WWII he and England had grown close again, but being in his old room, with those old memories, drove him crazy. It was like he was back in 1775. Everything that America thought he had resolved and gotten over just came flooding back, a wave of fear with it. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to remember. His short and brutal childhood, the revolutionary war, the tension, he didn't want to relive it. Everything that had been fixed, everything that had been forgotten, was suddenly running through America's brain at the speed of light, making him feel like he had just been hit by a truck.

As he heard footsteps coming up the stairs, he dashed out of his old room and into England's room, where he hid under the bed. He feared that if England found him, he would do something irrational and ruin their new friendship, a friendship that was still on thin ice, the memory of a revolution hanging over it like a dark cloud.

"America?" England called out from America's room, confused as to why he wasn't still sleeping in the bed he had been in a few hours before. America stayed silent in the room down the hall, his heart pounding as every second went by under the bed of the Englishman. England eventually made his way to his room and looked around, eventually noticing the blond man underneath his bed. He kneeled down and looked at America, laughing at the scared look on the American's face.

"Are you alright love?" England asked, looking into the blue eyes of the other country. America cringed at the word "love". The last time he had called him love was right before the revolution. Now it just made him uncomfortable.

"I-I'm fine." America said, sliding out from under the bed and standing up. England smirked at the skittish American as he wiped the dust off of his clothes.

"Why were you under my bed?" he questioned, cocking an eyebrow as the American continued to pick pieces of dust off on his shirt. America suddenly looked up, his sapphire eyes locking with the green eyes that gazed so intently back at him.

"Why am I in your house?" America cried in confusion and panic.

"I can explain."