[Fanfic]

[loveliita.livejournal.com]

Title: Starless, Sleepless
Author: Me~
Character(s)/Pairing(s): America, Vietnam
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Cursing, overly hormonal Vietnam… the beginning and most of the fic making no sense. I JUST WANTED TO WRITE SOMETHING RLY.
Summary: Vietnam talks to America about their situation. Violence ensues.

 

 

 

There are no stars here.

He can only think that as he eyes the smoke curling upwards, trying to reach the sky but dispersing in the face of thick foliage. That’s right—it’s the densest jungle he’s ever even conceived in his mind, so dominated by vegetation that the leaves and vines cover the sky. He wants to look up and see the sharp dots of light spattering the dark backdrop like they do at home, and the lack of them only serves to make Vietnam even more like some alien planet to him.

He’s never really taken an interest in cigarettes, hates them even as he smokes. They make his eyes water and his throat itch in a very unpleasant way, and the smoke captures his mind in ways cigarettes should not do. He watches every wispy cloud until it withers into nothingness, with dead eyes and a heavy heart. It is so very reminiscent of the dark, dark, dark smoke that is a symbol of destruction, and he cannot take his eyes off of it until it’s gone, until he knows that it’s only light nothingness from a fag, until he knows there isn’t a real fire.
It’s silly and he knows that, but one is simply giddy with nonsense when stranded on an alien little planet with nothing but cigarettes and drink and drugs to console you. His boys became something more than just men here, he thinks, they are like the older nations in Europe with a grave sort of wisdom after seeing everything—dead children and red forests, have you ever seen one? So messed up. God, he knows this entire thing is so messed up.

 

America’s head falls onto his knees, his kneecaps burrowing into his closed eyes as he holds his shin. It’s a good position to sleep in, or to mourn in, but he cannot do either.

He’s the look out tonight.

 

And if he tried to sleep despite the cuts signifying the probably gruesome deaths of his boys across Vietnam, he would only receive nightmares for his efforts.

 

 

“America.”

 

She broke it with the simple mention of his name and home and world; it, the silence he had been observing so diligently, the kind that encroaches upon everything in the dead of night, invades your ears and makes you perfectly aware that there is nothing but emptiness around you. The kind that makes the world seem so much more desolate than America wants it to be. The kind that is only so potent when you are not happy.

And America was not happy here.

By the looks of it, Vietnam was not looking very thrilled at all either. She kept her face flat, emotionless, biting back something burrowed deep. Even standing, and he sitting down, she seemed short to him, like a child. A child in need of saving, his mind whispers hyperactively, and he grimaces because there was simply no way he could save her without hurting her. She was short and light, but she was certainly no child. He had to remember that, had to know something about her, because she was not like him. He would tell her anything, everything, but she already knew— and worse, she would tell him nothing, and that was as much as he knew. Now as he turned to face her, adjusting his eyes to her figure in the darkness, she wiped savagely at her cheek, catching a tear that had escaped her.

She’s unmistakable in all ways. In the complete dark he can still see the whites of her eyes as her hands drop to her sides and she walks forward, and by the way they are shaped, curved, slanted, feline, he knows it is her. By the way she tugs on his shirt with long callused fingers and urgency, he knows it is her. By her unsettled voice—like that of a girl freshly awoken from nightmares, and perhaps she is—he knows it is her, and by its flatness he knows what she wants.

But really he knows nothing about the nation. She is as alien as her lands and her people, and just as those are, she is a weak ally and a strong enemy. And she is beautiful, but that is all America knows about Vietnam.

 

But about her he thinks he knows a bit, maybe. He’s seen her cry before. She cried for France, she cried for her people, she cried for his people and she cried for America’s people, all of them simultaneously. And sometimes in the middle of the night he will hear her whimper or hold back a sob, or hear her shriek in the midst of some terrifying nightmare, just as he does. But he wouldn’t tell her that—they are alike and so different. So prideful, wanting independence, she wants freedom! Freedom…

 

Now they only want freedom from the nightmares swirling around them in their unstirred sleep, dark wisps of their greatest fears. What America wouldn’t give to sleep soundly again…. 

 

“Nightmares?” He asks quietly, turning his head so that he can catch glimpses of her out of the corner of his eye but she cannot see expressions play out on his face.

”Yes. Always nightmares.” She says shamelessly, bluntly, as if they don’t matter. But he knows they do, because she pauses and releases a shuddering breath against his neck. It’s warm, shaking, full of fear. That is something America can recognize. That is not so inhuman.

”But I would not go on to you concerning nightmares. I am not child.” She proclaimed in a murmur, sitting down behind him. He winced at the sharp way she said ‘not,’ feeling his unstable comfort give way to uneasiness without a fight. She is so very blunt, so very pronounced that he has no trouble knowing if she is happy or sad, angry or contented. He appreciates that about her—doesn’t beat around the bush, doesn’t hide a glare behind kindly closed eyes and a smile, doesn’t confuse him with poetry or falsehood. Her emotions all play out in her words, her voice, her lips….

 

“I know that.”

 

“You don’t.” And he doesn’t have to look behind him to realize she’s glaring at him, eyes narrowed in a perfect and lovely and exotic and fierce and fiery and hateful glare. “How old am I, America? Do you know?”

 

America laughed weakly and turned his head so that he could peer at her, an indescribable feeling rising when he saw her glowering had subsided into an indifferent gaze.

It might be worse. He has learned to read her faces, but he will never be able to read her mind.

Her thoughts are quick-paced, dangerously elusive, ever-moving behind that pretty face. No, nations are not always what they seem. Alfred squints at her as she stares back levelly, a head or two shorter but just as confident as he. America cracks a grin.

“I dunno, babe, you look about 16. Look like a cute girl to me, shouldn’t be marching. Shouldn’t be in the army, shouldn’t hear people dying and you shouldn’t see it, shouldn’t have nightmares about it--”

 

“Shouldn’t you be home? That’s what I want to talk about. I want you… to go home.”

 

America turns to face her, eyes wide at her abrupt wish. He was helping. All of this… all of this was helping her, at least half of her! Did she not see it? Not appreciate it? Did she prefer that bastard’s assistance over his? Perhaps he could press more money… more troops…more…

He realizes she is taking amusement in his wounded expression, the hurt he so carelessly showed. Lately he’s been hiding feelings when he can, but he’s just not used to it. He roars out every stupid notion, every nonsensical idea, every single feeling that ever danced along his subconscious. It’s his nature, and he’s been stifling it for fear of showing ignorance…stupidity… his accursed youth, mostly from Russia, but also from Vietnam. Vietnam, who smiles venomously at him now although the expression does not taint nor touch those dead eyes.

 

America effortlessly averts those dancing-corpse eyes, looking at her hair. He likes her hair. It’s long, and it shines nicely although it’s thick and is easily tangled and frizzed. But it doesn’t taunt him and he doesn’t pity it, either.

Vietnam notices, a smile playing on her lips.

She is so sharp.

Alfred struggles, manages to say, “That’s only what the north wants.”

 

“No.” She says simply. “This is what I want. There is no north and no south, only Vietnam. I’ve told you this. I want you out of all of my houses, you and your troops.”

 

“You’re not being fair. W-why?” He says. This is important. He can’t leave when he’s come to help. He cannot end the American century just like that—he can’t, he can’t, he will not!
Her eyes flit towards the jungle, holding its gaze as she speaks, the strangely melodious, high voice playing. “I would be better if the war just ended now and you are only prolonging it.”

 

Her voice is a razor blade, her eyes are daggers, her cruel smile is as cutting as a scythe. America sighs, shifts his weight uncomfortably as he feels her lean against his back.

“Some of my people want me to leave as well, but I can’t call the shots. Vietnam.”

 

“If you leave, yourself, leave, the morale of the soldiers will drop and they’ll have to take them back—unless your government cares not at all for your people. I’m starting to wonder.”

 

“Vietnam…” America’s throat clenched, his chest felt tight. His voice was controlled, edgy, dangerous—Vietnam took no note and no cue. She kept on, leaning against him with more pressure, their eyes facing opposite directions. He could escape her smile, her eyes, but not that accented voice, not that insidious voice that wrapped around him and choked him.

”Tell me, America, why are you here? You want influence. You want to win this fight over… over my body with Russia.”

 

“It’s—It’s that if you fall to communism—“

 

“What if I was rising to communism?” Her voice is so calm, so under control, and he is shaking frightfully, cowering, cringing at every throwback. Vietnam can play him like a goddamn fiddle, she can. And now she’s standing, walking around, trying to catch his eyes with hers, dangerous, dangerous, don’t look. She crouches in front of him. Asking for it. She knows what she’s doing… she knows…

 

America swallowed deeply and continued. “R-rising? No… no… Vietnam, you’re just… you’re just confused, please just go back to bed.” He laughs, tries to be bright, and as his eyes snap open she is right in front of him, bending down, challenging him, mocking him…

He looks at her and sees so much and so little and then it’s all gone, replaced by the too-familiar stare of pure and unabashed hatred. “Go to sleep…” He murmurs weakly.

 

”What, and have nightmares of the deaths you’re causing? Over and over and over and over and over and over, do you know anything…!? Do you know what it’s like to be fought over like some goddamn doll for years?! For years and years and years!”
Her voice is raising, the composure on both sides has dissipated—and how dare she? How dare this goddamn girl, this bitch of a war, do this after everything everything everything everything! Can’t she see that I’m  trying to help her?—

 

“You don’t care—don’t even pretend-- you don’t care, I am just piece of territory to influence!”

America’s hands become tight fists, effortlessly, perfectly--

 

 Can’t this stupid girl figure out that my  way is the best way, the only way? Can’t she see that I don’t even want this either, that thousands, thousands upon thousands of corpses was not what I wanted!? Why doesn’t she see that I’m not a monster? I’m not a monster, I’m not…!

 

“You really have no idea, you spoiled brat—what it’s like—no idea, you top of the world superpower, you wealthy filth, you selfish bastard!“

The vague sense of his arm being raised by his own accord, pulling back for a frightful force—

 

 I’m not! I’m not I’m not, Russia is a monster, and I’m… I’m protecting her from that! I’m  a hero…! I’m a hero! I’m sorry she’s in pain, I’m so sorry she’s in fucking pain, but I’m only protecting her—Why doesn’t she see that? Why does she hate me, why doesn’t she forgive me…. Why doesn’t she just stop— talking--

 

 

 

She’s on the floor, bleeding.

 

Bleeding bleeding bleeding, blood, there’s blood on her face, her pretty, provocative face is red with blood— It’s oozing onto the ground. Her pretty, her pretty, horrible, nasty, gorgeous face is contorted with pain, pain and blood and blood and blood--

 

America shrieks, eyes wide as he frightfully scrambles over to her.

I punched her, I punched a girl, I punched Vietnam too hard I made her bleed I made her bleed bleed bleed is she dead? I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m too strong, I’m too strong and I’m too stupid, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry…

 

 

She’s yelling something, she’s not dead, she’s not dead why would he think she was dead? He doesn’t know, he just did, he did… He was so scared, really scared. It takes him a few torturous and dazed moments to figure out what she’s yelling as he holds her closer, holding her, holding her, his favorite jacket wrought with tears and blood and agonized cries--

 

“Airplanes!  Out! Get the fuck out of here—I—I hate you, you son of a bitch, you lowlife, get out!”

 

She’s beating her hands against his chest, against him. If she had a gun or a knife he might be lying in a pool of blood already, but her fists are wild and frenzied, thoughtless, mindless retaliation for something miles and miles away, beyond her help.

He winces as the fists come faster, but can only continue to hold her, hold her, hold her in an unwanted embrace as she shrieks, choking out profane French and Chinese and Vietnamese and English, hating him, purely hating him, and neither of them can sugar coat it—he had never laid a finger on her, but he had already killed her thousands upon thousands of times.

The fists die down, they settle onto her lap quietly as she sobs into him, biting her lip, trying to stifle it, but the traitor tears come rolling down anyways… anyways…
There is the real retaliation. America jolts suddenly, still holding a sobbing Vietnam who hardly notices his own abruptly bleeding arm; no, her pain is too potent and too apparent, her curses die down into quaint and wavering words of self-solace.

America pretends her murmurs and mumbles go for both of them, and hugs her closer as their blood, the blood of their countrymen and people, drips onto the floor. She does not pull away.