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By LadyLazarus33




Madeline blinks and it's 2:17 again.

The bed itself has been abandoned at this point, still pristine and neat from where is unslept body had stayed for the past week now. The dim light from the lamp on her nightside table doesn't cast any light into her brain.

Not for months now.

She catches her foot on the carpet, propelling herself in a slow circle from where she sat in the desk chair. The pen clicks and unclicks in her hand, while the fingers on the opposite one are in her mouth, teeth biting down on nails that are down to stubs with the same rhythm.

Up down.

Up down.

Up down.

Canada's violet eyes flicker to the white mass of fur on the foot of her bed, the polar bear's paw twitching as he slept. Always chasing. Her gaze moves and the bottle of sleeping pills on the counter, already open and the pen continues to click.





Is watching her.


She doesn't even have to turn her head and regard him, partially being the midmorning sun set the both of them into a kind of drowsy mode of being as they sped along the empty stretch of road somewhere in Nowhere, USA.

He's lucky there weren't any other cars around them, otherwise they would have ended up at the side of the road with tires in the air. Alfred moves his gaze off the road to look at her, bare feet pressed against the dashboard with her head leaning against the side of the door. The window is open with cool air rushing past them and into the car and her hand is catching the wind and he is suddenly mesmerized by the way her hair seems to catch on fire from the sunlight and she is so beautiful that he didn't deserve anything she had to give or say or do or think or

"What are you thinking about?" Madeline asks quietly. America bites his lip before leaning back into his seat, one hand resting idly on the steering wheel. His hand brushes a strand of hair from her face, fingers brushing her cheek before focusing back on the road.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

She is cornered, for the most part, by her father, his body sitting down next to hers on the bench outside the UN building.

England says nothing for a moment, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she stares out across the bustling city of New York. She presses the groove of her keys into the palm of her hand before his hand covers her own.

"He doesn't have to be the world, you know."

Madeline bites her lip and the words of selfish selfish selfish girl why do you do this goes through her head before she speaks, shaking her head to clear the hair from her face.

"Alfred doesn't have anyone." Violet eyes meet green, and a slight tugging upwards of her lips graces the conversation as she taps her temple with a finger "Not up here."

His hand cups her cheek, one finger brushing the bruises underneath her eye. "You can't be his everyone."

No sleep for three days over someone like him?

"I can try."

His hands are shaking.

Table to plate to cup to mouth and back again and France watches the nation with a cool look from across the table. America doesn't meet his eyes, fingertips carving invisible patterns in the seat of the chair. His gaze is in the space between them and drifting further along before France speaks.

"It's selfish, you know that?"

America hums, shaking table to plate to cup to mouth and back again and he tries to grasp where this whole situation started. When he stared using the one thing he swore he wouldn't break as something to hold him to the ground when all he wanted to do was push himself off.

"It's oblivion, but she makes it safe."

"It's safe for one, not two. You know her and how she functions." France takes a sip from his own drink, eyes blinking slowly at the slow rush of caffeine going through his system. "You get this from me, sorry about that."

"Can't be helped."

"But it has to be regulated. You can't make her your world, build it up and then expect her to keep it together when you don't know if you are justified for feeling."

America blinks, the circles underneath his eyes making the action look strained and painful in and of itself. And he repeats the action: table to plate to cup to mouth and back again until there is nothing left. He balances the handle of the coffee cup with one finger and for a moment wonders if it will come back together if thrown to the floor. "There are bad things in here. Even with her." He taps his temple with one finger.

"And you think it's your job to fix them?"

His head lifts up, expression confused and France feels the twisting of oh Alfred oh Alfred oh Alfred in his gut and playing like a record in the back of his brain. America frowns, and it is finger to cup to plate to table to his legs coming up and pressing against his body, resting his chin on his knees.

No sleep for three days over something like this?

"Don't you?"

Recompense comes later than either of them would like.

She doesn't knock, rather opening and closing the door of his room door like the ghost she was and sitting on the side of his bed. His back is against the headboard and she moves to sit next to him, both pairs of legs beside each other. The silence grows for several minutes, that for a moment he thinks she's asleep before her head moves to lean against his shoulder and America exhales the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

"No more." he breathes, and she only hums as his fingers brush against hers. And once again, they back away from the stage, with his nerves and anxiety and need to please underneath his arm before she comes, all too willing to help him out and gain some control in this wreck they called "family."

Her chest hurts with the aftermath of the fact as he kisses the top of her head, and she pulls his arm around her shoulder, moving her head into that one spot that seemed to only fit for her. Like a puzzle piece for both their persons.

Of course, pretense was just another scene to play, after all.

Guys, it's late and this is me not being able to sleep, so I decided to write. This isn't really supposed to have any major plot or problem, but rather a musing on what I feel about Alfred and Madeline's relationship, as this thing that sometimes takes its toll on both of them, but neither know how to stop it completely.

They do love each other, tremendously, but, as their parents pointed out, they rely on each other as a sort of escape from the reality of living or the hardships that they have to deal with. Alfred, using Madeline as a way of purging his own negative emotions and anxieties and then her, using his trust in her as a way of control and gaining an upper hand in their way of interaction. Granted, I didn't portray all of that, but I'm tired and this is me, once again, not being able to sleep.

If you like it, I'll write requests that people have to explore more into this topic. :)


Write a Review Did you enjoy my story? Please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Thanks, LadyLazarus33
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