Exhaustion
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: America-centric; appearances of England, Canada, China, various nations
Rating: PG-13 for an f-bomb
Summary/Notes: Kink meme deanon. America takes his job seriously for once, and it's taking its toll.
When England walks into the conference room, he is surprised to see America already there. A binder is lying open on the table, papers and folders are scattered on the floor, and a few mechanical pencils are stuck in the far wall. As for America himself, he is leaning back in his chair, head hanging over the back.
"That's terrible for your neck," England says by way of greeting.
"I don't care," America replies. Still, he lifts his head, blinks groggily, looks at the mess all around him, and puts his head and arms on the table.
"Are you honestly trying to take a nap right now?"
"Yeah," America's muffled voice replies. "So what? 'M jet-lagged and my hotel room has crappy pillows."
To his credit, England doesn't let his exasperation get the best of him. "America, we're in Toronto. I don't think you can claim jet lag. And aren't you staying with your brother anyway?"
"Then he has crappy pillows. England, I've got fifteen minutes before everyone's supposed to get here, can't you just let me sleep?"
"You have to talk about Iraq today, don't you?"
America digs in his jacket pocket and pulls out a flash drive. "Got a powerpoint. And before you ask, the greenhouse gas emissions thing is on there too, the dollar-euro conversion graphs are on the floor somewhere, and I've got half the North Korea speech done."
"Half," England repeats.
America still hasn't lifted his head from the table. He gestures to the far wall with his free hand. "I kinda got mad and threw the pencils then didn't feel like getting them."
"And when exactly do you plan on finishing this speech?"
"I don't talk about it until after the second break or recess or whatever it's called. I'll write it during one of them. I'll be fine."
"America-"
"What are you, my mother?" America finally sits up. "I'm a big boy, I know what I have to get done, and if I don't get some sleep I'll have to write it caffeinated and you know how well that goes."
He did look tired. The recession hadn't been kind to anyone - England perpetually had the feeling he was about to sneeze - but he couldn't remember the last time America hadn't had dark circles under his eyes. "All right, you win," England cedes. He sets his briefcase by his own chair and goes to leave. "I worry about you is all."
"Why?" America tries his hardest not to nod off. "I'm the strongest country in the world, I can take care of myself."
"That's what we all hope," England says to himself as he leaves the room. He checks his watch. Ten minutes until everyone is supposed to assemble, twenty-five until meeting start.
*
"My voice is killing me," America complains to Canada during the second ten-minute break.
"Boo hoo. I haven't spoken once since attendance, and I'm the host."
"Has there been a single thing so far this meeting that I haven't been part of?"
Canada drinks the last of his coffee while he thinks. "I don't think you were involved in the Russian wildfires."
"No, I was, I'm sending aid or something."
"'Or something'? Don't you know?"
"To be honest, I lose track of who I'm helping with what." America laughs, a bit flustered, then rubs his throat. "But I'm so thirsty, you have no idea. Green tea helps a sore throat, doesn't it? Do you have any?"
"Don't let England hear you asking for tea, he'll faint."
"You know, I happen to have green tea," a voice behind them comments.
America turns. "China!" he says. "Can I have some? Please? I'm kinda desperate."
"And how shocking, America asking me for something," he remarks as he sits down and takes a sip from the cup he's holding.
He sputters. "Hey, you offered! What are you, an Indian giver? Come on, just one sip, you won't even miss it!"
"You can have it for, oh, a trillion dollars or however much your debt's up to now."
"Didn't I just say half an hour ago I was working on paying you back?" he shouts hoarsely.
England, who had returned to the room just in time to hear the exchange, places a hand on America's shoulder and gives him a mug. America cautiously takes a drink of the hot liquid inside. "It's not green tea, but it does have honey in it," England tells him. "And instead of wasting your time in shouting matches, shouldn't you be writing your speech?"
America's face pales. "Shit." He nearly sprints back to his seat, spilling a good half of the tea on the way, and begins scribbling frantically on a piece of paper.
*
Since Canada is the host of this particular meeting, he's not surprised that he's the last one to leave. After running one last check of the room - Poland didn't leave crumbs on the floor, Italy threw away all his tissues, the tea America spilled is almost not noticeable - he turns out the lights, locks the door, and drives back to his Toronto home.
He's not surprised to find the front door unlocked, since America had been out the door almost before he'd finished adjourning the meeting and he'd been given a spare key. He is, however, surprised to find America curled up in his bed, arms around Kumajirou.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"Life," America moans in response.
If America hadn't been America but had just been Alfred Jones, a nineteen-year-old boy visiting his twin brother Matthew, this would have been the part where Matthew sat on the edge of the bed and listened to Alfred just vent, vent about stupid Arthur without any faith in him and stupid Ivan who still hates him for no reason and stupid Wang who wants his money and stupid this and stupid that until there wasn't anything left, then they would both have gone for burgers and shakes and played Halo until the wee hours of the morning.
But America isn't Alfred Jones, America is "the United States of," and Canada is only his brother in the loosest sense of the word.
"Get out of my room," he tells America. "But leave Kumajirou here."
*
America gets home so late the next night it's technically the next morning and immediately falls asleep.
He dreams he is trapped in a conference that doesn't ever end. Every country he's ever seen (and some he hasn't seen or doesn't remember ever seeing) is there, all lured by the idea of demanding whatever you want of the superpower.
It's worse than the dreams about being naked in front of everyone, since nobody even pays much attention to that sort of thing anymore. But every eye is on him now, and for once all he wants is out.
"When are you going to help me, America?" Sudan asks, then in the same breath, "When are you going to leave me alone, America?"
"When are you going to stop hating me, America?" Russia asks. "I thought the Cold War ended years ago."
"When are you going to pay me my money, America?" China asks.
"When are you going to take back the rest of them, America?" Iraq asks.
"When are you going to send me more aid?" Sri Lanka asks.
"When are you going to recognize me?" Sealand asks.
"When are you going to learn that I'm not your fifty-first state?" "When are you going to stop building that wall?" "When are you going to come play more music for me?" "When are you?" "When are you?" "When?" "When?"
The words all blur together, and the faces too, until there's just one giant monster asking question after question after question that America just can't answer, and the room is spinning, and no matter how fast America runs for the door it keeps getting farther and farther away, and the monster's wearing a sign that says "Debt" in fifty different languages and he can read them all, and it's getting closer and its teeth are sharp -
America wakes in a cold sweat to the sound of pounding on his door. "Alfred!" one of his states calls, though they all sound so similar that he can't tell which one. "When do I get that money you promised me?"
"What money?" he says, pulling a blanket over his head to block out the sunlight streaming in through a window.
"The money you promised last week! I need it for my schools!"
"What happened to your income tax money?"
A pause. "I spent it."
"On what?"
A longer pause. "...it doesn't matter. Point is, I need that money now."
"Too fucking bad."
"Alfred, I have schools to run! You're going to get me that money right now, or God help me I will - "
America has had enough. He leaps out of bed, ignoring his headache, and throws open the door. "Now you listen to me. The only thing you 'will do' is find that money yourself. You will not demand it from me, you will not wake me up to do so, and you especially will not try and threaten me when I can kick you out of the Union, clear?"
"Crystal," the state (Illinois? South Carolina? Oregon? He honestly can't tell) answers, only a hint of fear in his voice. America hears him mutter "Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed this afternoon" as he decidedly does not slam the door.
America collapses back into bed. He slept twelve hours last night and needs to work on that presentation about technology and globalization today, not to mention go over the last meeting with the President, but he can't bring himself to get up.
(There's another meeting in Tokyo next month. It never ends.)
Characters/Pairings: America-centric; appearances of England, Canada, China, various nations
Rating: PG-13 for an f-bomb
Summary/Notes: Kink meme deanon. America takes his job seriously for once, and it's taking its toll.
When England walks into the conference room, he is surprised to see America already there. A binder is lying open on the table, papers and folders are scattered on the floor, and a few mechanical pencils are stuck in the far wall. As for America himself, he is leaning back in his chair, head hanging over the back.
"That's terrible for your neck," England says by way of greeting.
"I don't care," America replies. Still, he lifts his head, blinks groggily, looks at the mess all around him, and puts his head and arms on the table.
"Are you honestly trying to take a nap right now?"
"Yeah," America's muffled voice replies. "So what? 'M jet-lagged and my hotel room has crappy pillows."
To his credit, England doesn't let his exasperation get the best of him. "America, we're in Toronto. I don't think you can claim jet lag. And aren't you staying with your brother anyway?"
"Then he has crappy pillows. England, I've got fifteen minutes before everyone's supposed to get here, can't you just let me sleep?"
"You have to talk about Iraq today, don't you?"
America digs in his jacket pocket and pulls out a flash drive. "Got a powerpoint. And before you ask, the greenhouse gas emissions thing is on there too, the dollar-euro conversion graphs are on the floor somewhere, and I've got half the North Korea speech done."
"Half," England repeats.
America still hasn't lifted his head from the table. He gestures to the far wall with his free hand. "I kinda got mad and threw the pencils then didn't feel like getting them."
"And when exactly do you plan on finishing this speech?"
"I don't talk about it until after the second break or recess or whatever it's called. I'll write it during one of them. I'll be fine."
"America-"
"What are you, my mother?" America finally sits up. "I'm a big boy, I know what I have to get done, and if I don't get some sleep I'll have to write it caffeinated and you know how well that goes."
He did look tired. The recession hadn't been kind to anyone - England perpetually had the feeling he was about to sneeze - but he couldn't remember the last time America hadn't had dark circles under his eyes. "All right, you win," England cedes. He sets his briefcase by his own chair and goes to leave. "I worry about you is all."
"Why?" America tries his hardest not to nod off. "I'm the strongest country in the world, I can take care of myself."
"That's what we all hope," England says to himself as he leaves the room. He checks his watch. Ten minutes until everyone is supposed to assemble, twenty-five until meeting start.
*
"My voice is killing me," America complains to Canada during the second ten-minute break.
"Boo hoo. I haven't spoken once since attendance, and I'm the host."
"Has there been a single thing so far this meeting that I haven't been part of?"
Canada drinks the last of his coffee while he thinks. "I don't think you were involved in the Russian wildfires."
"No, I was, I'm sending aid or something."
"'Or something'? Don't you know?"
"To be honest, I lose track of who I'm helping with what." America laughs, a bit flustered, then rubs his throat. "But I'm so thirsty, you have no idea. Green tea helps a sore throat, doesn't it? Do you have any?"
"Don't let England hear you asking for tea, he'll faint."
"You know, I happen to have green tea," a voice behind them comments.
America turns. "China!" he says. "Can I have some? Please? I'm kinda desperate."
"And how shocking, America asking me for something," he remarks as he sits down and takes a sip from the cup he's holding.
He sputters. "Hey, you offered! What are you, an Indian giver? Come on, just one sip, you won't even miss it!"
"You can have it for, oh, a trillion dollars or however much your debt's up to now."
"Didn't I just say half an hour ago I was working on paying you back?" he shouts hoarsely.
England, who had returned to the room just in time to hear the exchange, places a hand on America's shoulder and gives him a mug. America cautiously takes a drink of the hot liquid inside. "It's not green tea, but it does have honey in it," England tells him. "And instead of wasting your time in shouting matches, shouldn't you be writing your speech?"
America's face pales. "Shit." He nearly sprints back to his seat, spilling a good half of the tea on the way, and begins scribbling frantically on a piece of paper.
*
Since Canada is the host of this particular meeting, he's not surprised that he's the last one to leave. After running one last check of the room - Poland didn't leave crumbs on the floor, Italy threw away all his tissues, the tea America spilled is almost not noticeable - he turns out the lights, locks the door, and drives back to his Toronto home.
He's not surprised to find the front door unlocked, since America had been out the door almost before he'd finished adjourning the meeting and he'd been given a spare key. He is, however, surprised to find America curled up in his bed, arms around Kumajirou.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"Life," America moans in response.
If America hadn't been America but had just been Alfred Jones, a nineteen-year-old boy visiting his twin brother Matthew, this would have been the part where Matthew sat on the edge of the bed and listened to Alfred just vent, vent about stupid Arthur without any faith in him and stupid Ivan who still hates him for no reason and stupid Wang who wants his money and stupid this and stupid that until there wasn't anything left, then they would both have gone for burgers and shakes and played Halo until the wee hours of the morning.
But America isn't Alfred Jones, America is "the United States of," and Canada is only his brother in the loosest sense of the word.
"Get out of my room," he tells America. "But leave Kumajirou here."
*
America gets home so late the next night it's technically the next morning and immediately falls asleep.
He dreams he is trapped in a conference that doesn't ever end. Every country he's ever seen (and some he hasn't seen or doesn't remember ever seeing) is there, all lured by the idea of demanding whatever you want of the superpower.
It's worse than the dreams about being naked in front of everyone, since nobody even pays much attention to that sort of thing anymore. But every eye is on him now, and for once all he wants is out.
"When are you going to help me, America?" Sudan asks, then in the same breath, "When are you going to leave me alone, America?"
"When are you going to stop hating me, America?" Russia asks. "I thought the Cold War ended years ago."
"When are you going to pay me my money, America?" China asks.
"When are you going to take back the rest of them, America?" Iraq asks.
"When are you going to send me more aid?" Sri Lanka asks.
"When are you going to recognize me?" Sealand asks.
"When are you going to learn that I'm not your fifty-first state?" "When are you going to stop building that wall?" "When are you going to come play more music for me?" "When are you?" "When are you?" "When?" "When?"
The words all blur together, and the faces too, until there's just one giant monster asking question after question after question that America just can't answer, and the room is spinning, and no matter how fast America runs for the door it keeps getting farther and farther away, and the monster's wearing a sign that says "Debt" in fifty different languages and he can read them all, and it's getting closer and its teeth are sharp -
America wakes in a cold sweat to the sound of pounding on his door. "Alfred!" one of his states calls, though they all sound so similar that he can't tell which one. "When do I get that money you promised me?"
"What money?" he says, pulling a blanket over his head to block out the sunlight streaming in through a window.
"The money you promised last week! I need it for my schools!"
"What happened to your income tax money?"
A pause. "I spent it."
"On what?"
A longer pause. "...it doesn't matter. Point is, I need that money now."
"Too fucking bad."
"Alfred, I have schools to run! You're going to get me that money right now, or God help me I will - "
America has had enough. He leaps out of bed, ignoring his headache, and throws open the door. "Now you listen to me. The only thing you 'will do' is find that money yourself. You will not demand it from me, you will not wake me up to do so, and you especially will not try and threaten me when I can kick you out of the Union, clear?"
"Crystal," the state (Illinois? South Carolina? Oregon? He honestly can't tell) answers, only a hint of fear in his voice. America hears him mutter "Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed this afternoon" as he decidedly does not slam the door.
America collapses back into bed. He slept twelve hours last night and needs to work on that presentation about technology and globalization today, not to mention go over the last meeting with the President, but he can't bring himself to get up.
(There's another meeting in Tokyo next month. It never ends.)