Just a bit of background; I saw this prompt on another website a while back and I've been wanting to write it for a long time. Somebody was pondering what the Civil War must've been like from Alfred's point of view, since he was at war with himself and different parts of the country were requesting aid from different nations and things like that. I kind of took it and interpreted it as a mixture of schizophrenia / multiple personality disorder as Alfred starts to split apart while his country wars with itself. It's also based on the South's attempts to persuade England to aid them during the Civil War.

I'm not really much of a writer, and this is actually my first fully completed written work, so please, soft criticism is appreciated :) I know it's a little fast-paced, I might try and edit it later to flesh out the story a bit.

You are surrounding all my surroundings,
Sounding down the mountain range of my left-side brain,
You are surrounding all my surroundings,
Twisting the kaleidoscope behind both of my eyes.

- Twenty-One Pilots, Holding Onto You

The first time it happens, America doesn't even remember. He is too preoccupied with protecting Lincoln at the upcoming inauguration, disguised as a security guard in lieu of the conflict in Baltimore on the way to Washington D.C. He is discussing the potential risks with his colleague Allan; the next thing he remembers, he is on the floor, his drinking glass shattered beside him and his hand covered in blood. Allan tells him that he attempted to punch something before falling over himself; America apologizes, mortified, and blames his behavior on the heat.

The second time, however, it is far less avoidable; at the inauguration itself, three weeks later, he suddenly finds himself on the ground as the President gives his welcoming speech. When the other guards lean down to assist him, he begins to cry, screaming hysterically, and is dragged away as he shouts that Lincoln is a fraud, an antichrist, a sinner. He struggles violently against the guards, and although he is strong, far stronger than any of them, he is overcome by sheer numbers, and he is moved quietly to a small bunker near the White House. He shouts for two more hours, until a young assistant peers in to ask how he is doing and finds him sitting quietly in a corner, head in his knees.

America doesn't understand, and he is bewildered and embarrassed, but the President realizes his unusual situation and what he is, and waves it off as a "supernatural thing". America doesn't have much experience with other countries, other than his brief encounters with France and Canada and China and, of course, England, but he's never seen this happen to any of them, and it worries him. He and the staff agree that until this thing settles down, he is best left alone and away from the public eye.

Another night America falls asleep, only to be woken by a soft weight at the end of his bed. He opens one eye and nearly yells in surprise, because at the end of the bed is a spitting image of himself; at first he thinks it is Canada, but this person has his own glasses, a shaggier hairstyle, and most of all, lacks Canada's shy demeanor; he is arrogant, even more self-assured than America himself, and even through his own squirming fear and confusion America notices that this other America's cowlick is missing.

The other America smiles, but says nothing. America closes his eyes and hopes he is dreaming, but the weight from the end of the bed doesn't disappear, and America sits up and looks his doppelgänger in the eyes. He suddenly notices that his eyesight has improved significantly; he reaches for his glasses on the bedside table and finds that they have disappeared. Panicked, he looks down at the table, and then back to the other man.

"Who are you?" he asks, his voice low and his eyes narrowed. "Give me back my glasses."

The other man's grin simply widens. "You don't need them anymore," he says, and this otherwise unthreatening statement makes America's stomach clench uncomfortably. "You can see fine without them, can't you? They're mine now."

"Who are you?" America asks, louder, but the other America only smirks and replies quietly, "You know."

America leaps out of bed as the door opens; a young attendant enters, looking bewildered, and America casts one frightened glance back at himself before turning his body to the door. "How did he get in here?" he demands, pointing blindly back to the bed. The attendant looks even more confused, casting a glance behind America.

"There's nobody in here, sir," he says, uneasily. "What are you shouting about?"

America whips around, but the attendant is right; even the indent is gone from the bed. His glasses are right where he left them on the desk. The man has simply vanished.

America apologizes and excuses the incident as a dream, but the next day he barricades himself in his room, refusing to meet anybody. He waves away China's request for a meeting and politely declines Canada's offer to visit, but England's trip to the country a month later is inevitable. England is not used to being dismissed by others, and although the Revolution is still fresh in his mind, he refuses to tolerate it, particularly from a former colony. When he shows up on America's doorstep, he steps briskly past the maid and knocks on the door.

He enters the room when he hears no response and finds a somber America on the bed, pretending to read a book, though England notices that his eyes are frozen on the page. Impatiently, he taps the doorframe, but America is stubborn and refuses to acknowledge him.

"America," says England, gruffly. America pretends not to hear. "America, I'm speaking to you. Is this how you receive guests? I've traveled all the way across the Atlantic."
"Go away, England," says America listlessly, after a moment, and England suddenly notices that he is not wearing his glasses. He's worn glasses for over twenty years; the blink of an eye for somebody his age, but still a sizeable period of time. England finds himself recalling the young, rebellious boy who stared him down on the battlefield almost a century ago; the icy blue eyes have softened somewhat over the years, but they still have the same depth that drowned him in the final crucial moments of the war.

"Listen here, mate," says England, striding forward and closing the door. "I've come all the way here. I've heard news that you've half seceded yourself. Are you alright?" He's seen it happen before; the Netherlands, in the past, and more recently in India and Italy.

America freezes, his eyes locking on England's green ones, as though he's suddenly seeing him in a new light. England watches warily as America slowly places the book down and strides across the room. He's much taller than he remembers.

America's expression suddenly shifts; he's smiling now, eyes wide, as though he's returned to the mindset of the little boy with the corn-yellow hair that England found in the prairie all those years ago. His eyes have lost their competitive, rebellious edge to them, replaced by a childlike excitement.

"Oh, England!" he exclaims, and England steps back, startled; he hasn't heard America this happy to see him in years. "England, you're back! I've missed you, what brings you here?"

England can feel a dull pain aching in his stomach; he's slowly recovered himself from the war, but a bellicose America is easier to hate than a friendly one.

"I've…come to see if you needed any help," he says, cautiously, and America's eyes brighten.

"England, your timing is perfect, I really need you right now…I know we've had our differences, but this time we're on the same side!" America reaches for England's hand, but England folds them behind his back; America's hand remains in midair as though expecting a handshake. "It's those Yankees, England, they won't leave me alone…you know how greedy they are, England, they're all industrialists, they think everything belongs to them, they won't let me leave without a fight…" He's babbling now and England is standing in a stunned silence.

"America?" he asks, eyebrows furrowing impressively, unsure of what to do. He knows it's the country division that's causing this personality change but he's powerless to fix it. America has to work it out himself.

"Why should I help you?" he asks evasively, trying to figure out how to calm America down. "I can't say I sympathize with you; you're trying to secede again, just like you did to me."

"England, you can't possibly sympathize with them, remember the Yankees?" says America, as though this is obvious. "Remember Boston? That wasn't my fault, they're the ones causing the trouble, they're all sinners, they just want money, they-"

America's eyes suddenly lose focus and he staggers slightly; England lurches forward to catch him as he pitches forward dangerously. The two men stand in silence, the only sound America's heavy, irregular breathing.

America groans, sinking down to his knees, and England steps back to give him some space. After another few tense minutes, America looks into England's eyes, and he dully notes that the arrogant spark has returned.

"I…ah, sorry," says America, face red from shame or fever, England can't tell. "I'm sorry, what were we talking about?"

He doesn't seem to remember the conversation, but England prompts him anyway. "You were asking for my help, it seems."

"No I wasn't," says America slowly, edging backwards from his position on the floor. He's not looking at England anymore; his eyes are fixed somewhere behind him, but when England turns to look, there's no one there. "But…but he…are you in league with him? You're helping him, aren't you?"

"What are you talking-" starts England, but America's eyes have turned wild and he roars, "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE."

England is silent, standing still in the doorway, seething quietly. He can't believe he let his guard down, he can't believe he dragged himself across the ocean for this arrogant, self-centered bastard who ruined him, who set an example for his other colonies, who dragged France of all people into their conflict-

"Fine," sneers England, crossing the doorway and pausing to look back at America in contempt. He's opened himself up to this man twice and been torn apart on both occasions, and he refuses to back down without a fight this time. "Have fun with your little Confederacy. Perhaps one day we can bond over the defection of ungrateful citizenry."

America watches him go, torn between rage, embarrassment, and regret. He wants to apologize, but pride has always been his fatal flaw, and so he returns to his bed, firmly ignoring his own guilt and the hallucination of himself watching quietly from the corner.