A/N: Thanks to everyone that reviewed and. This story is now called "attrition".

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Attrition
A Lily By Any Other Name

March1968
Hue, South Vietnam*

America tries hard to pretend this war isn't getting to his head. He tries hard not to flinch when he sees another one of his soldiers drop, tries hard not to cover his ears when the bombs are dropped. It's hard, he reflects, trying to keep your head above the water when everyone around you has already drowned. He sees this in his soldiers every day; their eyes are soulless and empty. Sad. Their hands shake as they try to write letters back home, and the stamps fall out of their hands as they try to stick them on the envelopes. Guilt gnaws at him because he knows he should have noticed it before, but they have to keep going. The harder they fight, the more fire they give, the sooner they can all go home as heroes.

(Because the Vietnamese are better off dead than red.)

He rides on helicopters with his soldiers, eats with his soldiers, shares every waking moment with his soldiers. They're tired. They want to go home. Most of them are boys that were pulled away from their homes by the draft. America wishes the situation hadn't come to that, but there's nothing he can do about it.

(Especially if his people back home keep turning into damn hippies.)

The screams of civilians still ring in his ears from earlier today. He is surrounded not only by the ruins of the once majestic city of Hue, but also by the voices of the dead. If he closes his eyes, he sees entire jungles go up in flames from just a drop of napalm, and fields of rice painted a fluorescent shade of orange from the herbicides*. He sees the mangled, limp bodies of his boys lying face down in the glass-littered streets of Hue, sees the villagers of My Lai* blindfolded and on their knees with rifles pointed at their heads... Never let it be said that the personification of the United States of America was without a conscience.

(But they are better off dead than red.)

But they had to keep fighting as it would be the only way to win the war, the only way to stick it to that Soviet bastard. The Soviet Union thought he was all big and clever with all his territory and missiles, but the commie was dead wrong because righteous good always prevailed.

(And he had a bigger arsenal, anyways.)

Alfred isn't surprised as to why communism is a threat in Vietnam. The country is in too comfortable proximity to China and North Korea, and north of China was Russia, which was a part of the Soviet Union. The neighboring territories, too, were in immediate danger as well. Laos, Cambodia... Hell, the red could spread as far west as India, or as far east as the Philippines. There was no way of telling what would happen if he didn't stop the cancerous growth.

That's why he has to keep himself afloat.

(He can't let Soviet Union win this one because if he wins one, he wins them all.)

He can't let Vietnam- Lien- be seduced by the empty promises of the Soviet Union. She is the South, dammit, and she'll stay that way because she's more than his ally- she's his friend. Perhaps she doesn't recognize him as such, but he knows deep down that she knows he's only here to help her. He's here for her own good because friends help each other out when the going gets tough.

(And friends don't let friends become commie gooks.)

She'd been doing better as of recently. No more episodes of hysteria or confusion. He told her it would pass once it was clear which side was winning because that was what happened in his case. But she was still so distant. So sad. He wants nothing more than to see her smile. Perhaps she was a part of the reason why he wasn't giving up on the war just yet.

(He needs to save her.)

France's warning became muddled soon after meeting her. America understands now why she drove him out of her country- she wanted her freedom. She no longer wanted to be his China doll, the jewel of his empire. America liked to believe she never was. She's too clever, too headstrong, to have ever been France's play thing. He can't imagine her waiting on him hand and foot like he's seen his other ex-colonies do. All she ever wanted was her freedom, and being as headstrong as she was, that was what she got. Too bad that freedom was being threatened by the tide of red advancing from the north.

(And if she wants freedom, by God, he'll give it to her even if it means carpet bombing every inch of land he sees.)

But at the same time he understands why she was once the jewel of French Indochina. She carried herself in a way that commanded respect when dressed in uniform. Graceful dignity, he decides to call it. She's one hell of a leader, and any preconceived notions he had of her being shy dissipated once he saw the way she handled her troops and how her troops treated her.

(To him, that's more attractive than any pretty face.)

But there is also beauty in her simplicity. She isn't one for heavy make-up or extravagant clothing, but he knew she didn't need it because her eyes sparkle on their own and her uniform fit her as good as any dress.

(What he wouldn't give to see her again in an ao dai, though.)

She is like a wild, thorny rose growing freely up a wrought-iron fence; her beauty is to be admired from afar and never clipped or cut.

(Unless you had a good pair of clippers.)

Three thousand dead.

Three thousand dead just in one city.

Her hands shake as she reads through the reports from Hue. Death, death, and more death... It was as if the reaper himself had made a home in her country. Three thousand civilians massacred* in the streets by the NVA, by the soldiers from the other side. Were they really her soldiers anymore? America was trying hard to convince her they weren't even her people. The other guys, he'd said, are not yours. They're communists. The enemy. Just look at what they're doing to your country.

(But it was him. He was the one destroying her inside and out.)

She set the reports down and squeezes her eyes shut. The tears were already flowing freely down her face, but she doesn't bother to wipe them away. She doesn't know if she's crying from the physical pain inflicted by the napalm that ravaged her lands, or from the massive loss of life this war was turning out to be. She's seen his dead, too- young soldiers with torn and bloodied uniforms lying dead in the streets- and doesn't know how he can keep on fighting. How can he keep on sending his own troops like lambs to the slaughter? Does it not faze him to see the lives he's destroying with his arrogance?

(No, because he still thinks they're friends.)

Arrogance. That's what it is. A sensible person would have quit a long time ago. But America is not a sensible person. He will fight till his last breath if it warrants him a victory. She was like that, too, during the war with the French, but she doesn't care anymore. She doesn't care which side wins. She doesn't care which side loses. All she wants is for this to be over and for him to leave before he made everything worse.

(Her people call to her from both sides. Neither of them wanted this from the start.)

There's footsteps outside of her tent. She tenses and rushes to wipe her tears away before her visitor sees them.

America lets himself in without an invitation.

(She supposes his foreign policy is modeled after his own attitude.)

"Hey, Viet-" He greets, calling her by the nickname he had given her, but halts in his tracks at the sight of her. "Hey, are you okay?"

(No.)

"Yes." She nods tersely. "What do you want, America?"

"I'm just checking up with you." He says. "It's... Been a rough day to say the least."

She blinks. Quietly, she adds: "How many?"

"Dead or wounded?" He asks with a dark chuckle. He gestures to the chair next to hers. "Two hundred-something. May I sit?"

She nods again, but scoots away from him as he takes a seat. If he notices, he doesn't show it.

(She wants to ask him why he's here. No, not just in her tent, but in her country as well.)

He doesn't say anything for a while, and it makes her uncomfortable. A quiet America is never a good America because it means he's actually using his brain for once.

Then he speaks.

"I was at the medical tent." He says softly. She raises an eyebrow. "I was with one of my wounded. Young. A draftee. He asked he to write a letter to his mother telling her how bravely he fought. He died right after. Doctor told me it was from infection."

She doesn't really know what to say, but figures it unfair to remain silent when she's lived through the same scenario so many times.

"That's unfortunate." She says.

"It is." America nods. "But he's not the first and certainly won't be the last. How are yours holding up, Viet?"

(Wounded. Dying. Dead.)

"As well as you would expect." She replies. "There are four hundred caskets waiting to be shipped back to their respective villages."

(And three thousand more already in the ground. She supposes America can be right.)

He holds his tongue. She notices the sag of his shoulders. His uniform is looking bigger on him than it had three years ago.

"Can I ask you something?" He speaks up again. His blue eyes are boring deep into hers.

"I guess."

"What was it like to live under France?" He ventures. "How was he to you?"

She tenses. Why bring that up now?

"He bought me frilly dresses and expensive perfumes." She answers without much thought. "He liked to call me his lotus flower and give me jewelry. He liked to spoil me in an attempt to dominate me. Why are you curious?"

"I thought he treated you terribly." America admits.

"Well, he was a desperate imperialist." She shrugs. "That alone should tell you enough. Does he talk to you about me?"

(She honestly doesn't want to know.)

"He's terrified of you." There's a slight smile on his lips. "Can't even talk about Dien Bien Phu."

That makes her smile a bit. Her lips curve upwards ever slightly, but they fall to their usual flat position when she catches America staring at her. He doesn't flinch when she shoots him a glare. He laughs. It's infuriating yet leaves her confused.

"I've never seen you smile." He says. "I didn't think you had it in you."

She blushes, but doesn't know why. "There isn't much to smile about, America."

"There's always beauty in the world if you squint hard enough."

"That sounds like something France would say." She rolls her eyes.

"Ah, well, he did have a hand in raising me." He shrugs. "I picked up a thing or two."

(Like imperialism.)

There's a (un)comfortable silence. She starts to notice little things about him in their proximity. His nose has a slight bump in the middle and his glasses are gleaming clean. The cupid bow of his lips is a gentle, chapped arch. His eyes are still the vibrant blue they were three years ago. These minor details, the vignettes, have not been weather or worn from decades of prolonged war. She subconsciously reached up to touch her own face to feel the side effects of time beneath her finger tips. America studies her intently.

"I think you're really pretty." He says suddenly, out of the blue. His face is tinted pink in the dim lamplight, but there's a sincere smile on his lips. "Beautiful, actually."

She blinks dumbly and tries to process his words. Pretty. Beautiful. The last person whom had called her either was France.

(Francis. Francis, Francis, Francis. Nations usually didn't refer to each other by their human names.)

(But America had called her by her's at Khe Sanh. America had carried her away from the battle and stayed with her till her headache subsided and her tear ducts ran dry. America had called her Lien.)

"That was random." She finally responds, but her heart is beating oddly fast against her rib cage; it's not charged with adrenaline or fear- it is something totally different. It hadn't done that in a good decade or so.

"It's been on my mind." He admits. His face is still red. "I like you."

He... Likes her? She isn't sure what that means because she's not sure of much these days. But the warm feeling bubbling inside of her makes her want to scream and cry and hit herself till the thought of him goes away. She doesn't need him. She doesn't need anyone or anything but her freedom.

(And he's not that freedom.)

But his blue eyes are still boring into hers and his heel taps nervously against the ground as if expecting an answer. This is what she hates. This is what she despises. She hates how he's able to make her doubt her feelings. He does it in such a way that can only be described as passive aggressive- not exactly prying, but never dropping the matter, either- and she hates how it makes her act upon foreign thoughts. Deep down, she wants to believe he knows what he's doing to her, but then she glances into his eyes, and remembers how relatively innocent he is compared to the rest of them.

(Because two nuclear strikes later and he's still young, but perhaps it is a different matter on the inside than on the outside.)

She hates how he makes her do things she never would have done under normal circumstances.

And that's how she came to kissing him.

She takes him by surprise, leaning towards him and pressing her lips against his. They're chapped and dry, but hers are definitely no better. He's sloppy yet much too eager, and his inexperience bleeds through when he accidentally bites her lower lip. He sighs through his nose and pulls away unexpectedly.

(She doesn't want him to, but she should.)

"Everything will be okay." He whispers against her lips as if she asked for reassurance. His eyes are closed behind his glasses. "I promise I'll protect you."

(I shouldn't want your protection...)

He leans in for a chaste kiss that leaves her more breathless than she'd like to admit. Blue eyes meet brown one last time before he leaves her presence. She tries to smile at him, but she's sure it looks more like a grimace than anything. Millions of butterflies are flying around inside of her, but they're making her sick with disgust at herself.

(She glances back at the reports still sitting on her desk, and the voices of three thousand dead scream in her ears.)

(Perhaps America is right.)

Historical Notes

Battle Of Hue (1968): Part of the Tet Offensive (the North Vietnamese surprise military campaign against the South). Hue used to be the old capital of the country, and was an imperial city. This battle saw some of the heaviest urban combat of the entire war, and is compared to Fallujah during the Iraq War (2003-20?) because of unconventional battle field. Hue was a tactical victory for the U.S and the South, but a political victory for the North. It was also the turning point in the war due to the American domestic opposition that commenced in 1968.

My Lai Massacre (1968): This was considered by U.S media as "the most shocking episode of the war". On March 16th, 1968, members of Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 20th Infantry Regiment, 11th Brigade of the 23rd Infantry Division went into the village of My Lai in South Vietnam with orders to kill all residents suspected to be affiliated with the Viet Cong. Between 300 to 500 civilians were brutalized and killed by U.S soldiers (women and children included). As a way to counter the Tet Offensive, American soldiers were ordered to go into these villages and kill anyone they suspected was VC. That was usually limited to military-aged males. Once word of the atrocities committed in My Lai got to the U.S, domestic opposition to the war surged. The perpetrators of this war crime were brought before a war tribunal, bot only one officer was found guilty and convicted.

Agent Orange: A herbicide used in Operation Ranch Hand by the U.S. The purpose of this operation was to limit the food supply of the North Vietnamese by spraying their crops with a deadly herbicide called Agent Orange. Named for its bright orange color, Age Orange not only killed crops, but also animals and the ecosystems around it.

Hue Massacre (1968): Prior to the Battle of Hue between U.S Marines and the NVA, the Northern forces massacred an approximated three thousand civilians in the city. By March, at least 5000 Vietnamese civilians were dead and the city was destroyed.

A/N: I seriously wished we talked about all of this more in school, but, hey, biased America. This war is such a compelling and dark thing to talk about, but I don't think people should be uneducated about it. Thanks to everyone that followed! But please don't read or follow/favorite if you're not going to review! Plz!