---Chapter XIX: Hide and Seek (Part 3)---


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From a distance, we saw how the young America noticed his own reflection, and how it seemed not to quite to be his, after all.

"Y-You're not me..!" Young America cried out in confusion.

The young American Second Player smirked, but his crimson eyes caged in the all-too familiar loneliness, as well. "I am."

"I'm you, America."

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///Reader's PoV///


It was at that moment that things started to fall into place. What Allen had spoken about earlier...I thought it was in the general aspect of things. But really, it was of his own. It was about him personally. A long way back, when I found out that the Second Players came to exist because of wars, I immediately assumed that it was during the World Wars. I knew that the World Wars caused an insurmountable weight of grief and despair upon the countries, much so that it was completely understandable for their negative thoughts, feelings, emotions to take life, existence, through the 2Ps. But that was clearly not the entire case.


"Not all wars occur on the battlefield."


At such a young age, Alfred had experienced waves upon waves of loneliness and depression. He seemed like a happy, rambunctious kid, but...the ones with the brightest smiles always were the ones broken inside the most. Years ago, internal battles waged within himself as he tried to fight the tears away, telling himself to keep smiling, to keep showing how happy he was...how everything was alright...how...he's always ecstatic to...see him...

That way, surely, he wouldn't be left alone anymore...right?


"That's a laugh,"Allen darkly murmured, watching the memories unfold before us. Scenes began playing around us, and not only the visuals were present.

So were the feelings etched deep within these memories.

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"Why do you have to go...?"

"Please, don't leave me here! Please..."

"I'm so lonely..."

"I'm alone..."

"All...alone."

-=-=-


To me, these feelings felt similar to what I've gone through personally, but the intensity of the emotions were something foreign. The loneliness was like being plunged right into a dark ocean, sinking you further and further down as you struggle...because when you try to struggle, you lose air...and it only causes you the complete opposite of what you want. When Alfred felt himself drowning in his loneliness, he tried using his fake smiles and enthusiasm to act as his effort to save himself...but it only pulled him down further. Feeling it for myself, even in a second handed way, was undoubtedly suffocating. It was scary.

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"...Why can't I ever be...good enough...?"

-=-=-

But to Allen, it was like meeting an old friend he had kept buried in the back of his mind.

-=-=-

"You're not America! I'm America! You're not me! You never will be!!"

"...You're right. I'm the 'you' that you never wanted."

-=-=-

"Al..." I began, not really sure what to say. I'm not exactly sure what was going on, one minute we were in an aged and eroding version of the mansion, and the next we're here in some kind of memory akin to those when clocks were broken...but there was a different tinge of magic to it that I can't quite place. Seeing different memories play before me felt like an invasion of both Americas' privacy, and the aftertaste of each scene of America feeling grief was too much to take. "H-Hey, Al, we could...try finding a way out of this, you know?"


"No."


"What?"


The usually brusque redheaded American's features were soft, his eyes gazing towards the nostalgic scenes forming around us. He was usually so brash, always loud and abrupt...but now, he looked so fragile...like fine glass that could easily break with one mistaken touch.


"I think...you should see this for yourself, dollface." His country accent faded, almost sounding like Alfred, but with a rougher edge in his voice. He looked like he was in pain just hearing the younger version of Alfred or seeing himself reflected back in the mirrors of the former's house. "You'll see it, doll. How weak he was. How weak I was. I keep calling that hamburger shithead pathetic, but I'm the embodiment of his weaknesses...more than anything, I'm the weak one here. And I hate it...I hate him..."

Allen began shaking, clenching his fist tightly--angrily.



"...I hate myself."


All three Americas around me spoke the same line in the same broken voice.



"I don't."


Only Allen froze upon my words, with the two younger Americas continuing their distorted scenes. It was as if what I said broke him from his trance.

"Look, Allen, listen to yourself. What you mentioned, that wasn't you. I don't think you're weak. I don't think you're pathetic. And definitely...I definitely do not hate you." I met his crimson gaze, seeing his lost look felt like seeing myself from darker times in my life. "I thought of myself as those, as well. I've hated myself more than a few times, okay, maybe far too many times not to know that agonizing feeling of being slowly pierced through the heart with every passing day. I've felt loneliness. I've felt depression. I've known self-hatred like it was my own brother. But despite that, I'm here! Don't you know...? You were one of those who helped me get through it all. You guys were--"


The American Second Player stepped away from me. "--But I didn't do anything!!!"

"I didn't do anything! How was I even able to help? How could you even say that I was worth anything to you?! I didn't even know you before all this!" he cried out, confusion and frustration vaguely clouding his eyes. I tried placing my hands on both of his arms, wanting to calm him down. He began struggling...escaping, in more sense than one. I looked up at him and exclaimed,



"But I knew you!"



That made him stop. I, on the other hand, don't plan to. "I knew you. Yes, I haven't met you before all this--but even before all this insanity happened, you already had a place in my heart, a part of my life!"

"What are you saying..?" he asked me, a bit shaken by my confession. He also seemed flushed for some reason. Clearly, an important fact has been forgotten by him.


"I've said it before, I'll say it again: I'm a Hetalian."


Clicking his tongue, Allen's face turned sour. "Doll, being some fan of a fictional show that attaches you to us?! It won't make you really love us, just the concept of us. You keep talking about that show? That was just made for your entertainment! Your entertainment. Your love for us is as real as your fictional two-dimensional show about those bastards."


"Do you know what 'real' is, Allen?" I asked quietly. He looked away, uncertain how to respond to my query. "Allen...'real' is something that's existing. Something that's not imagined or supposed."


I raised my hand to his face, which made him flinch a little, probably expecting a slap or a hit.


Neither came. Just a caring hand placed on his cheek.


"We're both real, aren't we?"


He simply nodded as I stepped away from him, not breaking our eye contact. "Allen, you and I exist. Oliver exists. Matthieu exists. Francois exists. Second Players. First Players. We're all here. Not imagined or supposed." I clutched my chest. "The pain we've experienced is all too much to feel for us not to exist. The mere fact that we're here, right now, feeling all these emotions--proves that we're real. We're real, Allen. That's how real my love is."


"I'm a Hetalian. A real Hetalian. Hetalia is a show, yes, but to me, it's more than that! Hetalia was there for me during those rainy days I'm alone and my friends are off somewhere without me. Hetalia was there for me whenever I'm having a fight with my family. Hetalia was there when I was getting really down about my life at school because of so many difficulties I've experienced. Hetalia was there for me to make me smile when nothing else could.

The comedic show that went from nonsensical to meaningful that always helped me get up whenever someone pushes me down or whenever I would give up and slump down myself. Knowing all the countries in the show, knowing the communities, seeing the art, seeing the fandom create so many beautiful ideas, concepts, memories, and just about anything and everything for Hetalia. Finding about the Second Players, seeing a different side of the score between them and the countries. Looking at all the different interpretations of you by the fandom. Looking at everyone who loved you and gave you definition and meaning. It gave me meaning.

You have no idea how much Hetalia has saved me." Before I knew it, there were already tears trickling down my cheeks...but I was not ashamed. This was me, and this is how it always will be. When you're a Hetalian, you're here forever. I love Hetalia so much. I love everyone so much.


"Heh. I..." Allen began, suddenly pulling me into an stiff embrace. "I...think I'm getting an idea now, dollface." With that, we started easing into the hug. I could feel Allen relax, calming down after the rising emotions that were starting to overtake him earlier. It was a satisfying feeling, to get your message through a person.


As we broke away from the hug, I saw Allen scrunch his face. "Ugh. Bein' all feelsy and shit is fuckin' exhausting," he playfully complained, earning a soft giggle from me. It was nice to see him somehow back to normal. I mean, he was back to his mischievous and gruff air, but I can tell when someone's eyes have changed. The muddled crimson red was now comforted, but there's this shine reflected back that you can't miss.


Yet amidst that, there was still something clouding that shine.



"I get what ya said, dollface. You care about us, it's...nice. It's really nice," he paused, a small smile gracing his lips before turning into an unsettled frown. "But the thing is, it's not gonna change how we were brought out to be. Kissing the wounds won't heal them, it's just as much as apologizin' to a broken plate that can never be whole again. We've gone through so much, too much..."


Within our peripheral vision, we could see the young Alfred hear something from the outside. He looked torn between being broken and being ecstatic. It was another battle within himself where he can't quite point out the real victor. Forcing a smile on his face, he wiped away the tears and headed towards the door. Crimson eyes watched the young lad as he began turning the knob.

Yes, crimson eyes. Young Allen was there, watching from the other side of the mirror. Anger and betrayal bubbling up inside him as he watches his double feed him more weakness, bitterness, and grief by burying them inside his heart and into the redhead's existence. Allen wanted to stop Alfred from giving him such torture, enough was enough. The young American Second Player balled his hand into a fist from the whirlwind of emotions storming inside him. He wanted to hurt Alfred for hurting him. Out of the burst of his emotions, he suddenly punched the window he was seeing through, the mirror, and expected an impact on his knuckles.

But instead, he was pushed out.

It was like some sort of barrier between the world beyond the mirror and the world within it disappeared, and out he went. He landed ungraciously on the carpet, hitting his head a little. His small accident created an audible thud, but went unnoticed as no one was inside the room. As the young Allen recovers himself from shock, as this was the first time he was free from the four sided frame that held his existence captive in suffocating nothingness, he took the time to inspect the room.

Dusty furniture, antique figures displayed on the shelves, papers and crayons scattered all over the floor--along with some peculiar toys that seemed familiar.

Young Allen picked one of the toys up, "A toy soldier, huh?" he muttered, bitterness laced in his words. He was about to throw the wooden toy away when he heard a shuffle from behind him that caused alarm.



"You know...I'm sure there had to be something in your past that kept you going? One's existence can't solely be based on hatred and bitterness, right? If you existed way back then, then I'm sure there was at least someone who shed you at least a ray of light on how your world deserves kindness! Even back then, there had to be people you cared about, right?" I asked, keeping a distance from Allen but unable to suppress the thoughts that lingered within me. The redhead felt complex about my inquiries, but there was nostalgia fluttering his features. He spoke in a soft voice, "Heh. You could say that, doll."

"What about family? You care about Oliver and the others right? You did mention something along those lines before, and you two seemed really close," I pointed out.

Allen rolled his eyes. "Oh, if ya only knew, dollface. D'you honestly think that that happy cupcake psycho Oliver welcomed me in open arms with cupcakes 'n' sprinkles?"

"W-What? What do you mean?"


"Do you really think Oliver was happy when he found out about my existence?"



Turning around to determine the cause of the alarming sound, young Allen's crimson eyes were suddenly met by a gaze from light blue orbs that gave an entrancing illusion of pink swirls on each iris. It was a...person. A lad seemingly older than him, looking like one in their teens. He was a head taller than the young Allen. The teen had strawberry blonde hair, wearing a questionable assortment of neon blues and pinks. What was striking about him was his big smile that seemed a little...off. Breaking Allen out of his mental assessment, the teen spoke up in a heavy British accent.

"'Ello there, love! How lovely to see you here~"

The young redheaded was surprised at the Brit's cheerful greeting. "Y-Yeah."

Nodding, the Brit continued, "What's your name, poppet?"

"...I'm America."

And all too quickly, a knife was placed under young Allen's neck. The strawberry blonde teen, swiftly grabbed him and restricted the American's movements. Struggle and Allen's throat will face the cold blade of the Brit's knife. The one who had the upper hand, however, kept his grin the whole time, maybe even wider. But his cold words were hollow and full of spite,

"I know."