Guess who decided to de-anon for this one~

I did~XD

Hope you guys enjoy~

And the titles belong to Webber. the Characters belong to Hidekayaz. And the plot theme belongs to the OP~

He wore a crème baseball cap and a pair of tan slacks and a white shirt with a brown vest. He didn't speak loudly. In fact, he barely spoke at all as he puttered about the market with a contented expression. He would point to things and ask "Cuanta cuesta?" How much? They assumed he was from the Americas. Canada maybe. He never said either way.

"Hola senior~" The green-eyed youth waved, making the man stiffen. He raised a confused brow as he tried to place the familiar face. Not America, surely this quiet man merely- Oh! The man was hurrying away like he was being chased by a demon. The green-eyed man shrugged. How strange the foreigner was. He must have had his wallet stolen. Poor Canadians never caught a break.

He wore black slacks this time, and a navy blue sweater, a pair of white gloves and a white scarf to keep him warm as he sipped his tea with a melancholy expression. He wore a nice warm hat, obscuring his hair from sight as he watched the people travel to and fro on this chilly day. He drank his tea black and bitter. He liked it that way. He missed drinking tea, but they expected him to drink coffee. So he did.

"Guten tag," a blond man greeted his brunet friend the table over. The man stiffened in his seat. He waved over the waitress and paid the bill for his tea. He didn't want to be noticed. They never saw him in the calm man who sat and spoke softly and drank tea like a true English Gentleman.

He wore a pair of jeans and a red hoodie. The hood covered his head as he sat. The game was intense. Both sides were screaming bloody murder as the game raged. But he was placid as a lake. The one he had come to see was pitching a fit and waving his hockey stick with deadly intent. He could have laughed that he was always invisible when it counted most. Instead he cried as he smiled.

"What the hell?" the Canadian could have sworn he saw his brother. But that quiet man staring at him so intently couldn't be him. America was so loud and boisterous. He never cried while smiling at a goal by a Canadian Hockey player. He would be amongst the fighters, screaming his head off like the hot headed American he was.

Alfred Always spoke loudly at the meetings, but this was just plain ridiculous. They wouldn't be surprised if he could be heard through the floors. He didn't seem to notice as he got between Israel and Palestine. Yelling something about brothers and not fighting. Israel gave him the cold shoulder while Palestine verbally ripped his head off, making him retreat like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. He tried with Serbia and Kosovo, but was dealt with similarly. He tried to intervene again and again. No one noticed the strange expression flickering across his face. This was America the Fool after all.

"FUCK ALL OF YOU ASSHOLES!" They silenced, staring at the seething blond. He glared at them, blue eyes glowing and glittering behind steel rims. They all hated him, "I get it! You all hate me! No matter how hard I try… You just… You just…"

A strangled sound. But this is America. He never cries. He always laughs it off and says something stupid. But he isn't laughing. He's sobbing. Large tears roll down his face as he stands there, rubbing with the sides and heels and palms of his hands until they are as wet as the rest of his face. They stare because this isn't how America is supposed to act. He's supposed to be the one who acts like an idiot and grins as they whisper behind his back. He isn't supposed to know how they resent him for his nosiness or his hero-complex that has to save everyone even if they don't want it. He moves quickly, turning and vanishing like he has apparated. But he hasn't; the banging door of the conference room is the proof they need.