America slept through most of the flight. He was exhausted and needed the sleep, especially considering the hellfire he was returning to. The first class seats were comfy, but not nearly as nice as Soviet's bed had been.

When he woke up in Soviet's bed, he'd panicked. Oh hell no, I did not sleep with him. No no no no. Then he realized two things: one, he was alone and dressed, so he had not slept with the commie; and two, he was still wearing Soviet's jacket. He let himself enjoy it, snuggling into the coat's warmth. But only for a moment. He might've had some feelings towards Soviet, but he didn't have time to bask in them.

He could still hear Soviet's voice, soft in the firelight. 'What are you going to do about it?' God, America had considered it. He'd honest-to -god considered kissing him. He'd stared at Soviet's soft-looking lips, heart pounding in his chest. His heart seemed to scream, just do it! Just kiss the man! But he chickened out, as he often did. He had no time for romance, especially not with his former enemy. Not when it had ended so badly last time.

He couldn't seem to make up his mind. He hated Soviet, Soviet had left him in his darkest hour. But if he hated him, why did his heart jump in his chest at the mere thought of him?

As the plane started its descent, America jolted out of his reviere. He was so, so tired. It felt like his eyelids were weighted. The attendants spoke in Russian over the intercom, something along the lines of "we will be touching down in Washington DC in 20 minutes".

He groaned, checking his phone. Airplane WiFi was garbage, but even then he still had several Twitter notifications and 20 emails. He half heartedly read through the emails. They were nothing but riot, riot, riot. His heart sank. Somehow, he had the terrifying feeling that he'd hear nothing but protests for a month.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the seat. His medication was wearing off, meaning the voices would be back. The Olanzapine didn't completely shut the voices up, but it silenced them to a dull whisper. Now, he could hear them loud and clear. They weren't screaming. Yet.

"Don't get me wrong, protests are a right; but rioting and looting is not. You're not following quarantine either!" Conservative, a manly voice with a southern drawl, snapped.

"Coming from the man who protested quarantine! This is a real issue!" Liberal, a reedy feminine voice barked back. This back and forth debate continued for several minutes before America decided to drown it out with music. It worked, to an extent. It got his mind off the arguments and the fact that he was reliving the 1967 Detroit riots on a national scale.

An attendant came by and asked in accented English, "Please put your tray table up."

America obliged, only half hearing her over his music. He'd slept through most of a 14 hour flight and he was still exhausted. The jet lag would be hell.

Once they landed, America was one of the first off the plane. Minnesota and DC were waiting for him, both women looking equally stressed. Minnesota showed it though her outfit- sweats and a hoodie (in July!), and in the dark circles under her eyes. DC, however, looked impeccable as usual, dressed in a pristine pantsuit and hair pulled into a tight bun. Her stress showed in the way she swayed back and forth just slightly, in the tense set of her shoulders.

God, this had to be so rough on his daughters. They were dealing with crisis after crisis, and what was he doing? Flirting with a communist in the wilds of Siberia. Fool, you deserve all of this.

Ignoring his intrusive thoughts, he hugged his two girls. "I'm sorry I wasn't here."

"It's okay," DC said. "You couldn't have known."

Minnesota nodded, shoving her hands in her pockets. "None of us could've. You're here now."

America nodded. None of that helped his guilt. What kind of a father just left his kids? Not a good one, that's for sure. "Of course. I'll get to work right away."

"Dad, you look exhausted," Minnesota pointed out. "Don't overwork yourself."

"I have to, baby. But thank you." He smiled softly. He appreciated their concern, but he didn't like it. He could handle it. After all, he was their dad, and he could take care of anything.

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" DC asked, nervously glancing around the airport. She'd always been a nervous person, having inherited that from her father. She was his only biological child that wasn't one of the original colonies.

"Don't worry about me." He replied coolly, despite his own doubts and worries. "I'll be okay."

"Liar, liar, your country's on fire," Republican sang in his ear.

—————

When he'd landed, it had been 11 am. He worked until midnight. No food, no breaks. He had to get this done. He had a pile of paperwork a mile high. He'd only gotten through about half the emails before the migraine hit, cutting his work flow in half.

He groaned, clutching his head with one hand and typing with the other. His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten since the plane, instead throwing himself into his work the moment he got home. He had to fix this, for his children. There were now protests in all 50 states, even Hawaii. Precious little Hawaii, who couldn't handle a small argument. Little Hawaii, his youngest, who he'd taught to surf in the Pacific.

He closed his laptop, choking down a sob. It felt like the world had crashed down on his shoulders. He'd abandoned his kids, and for what? To entertain foolish ideas of romance? The minute Minnesota texted him about the riots, he should've rescheduled his flight and came home.

"What a pathetic excuse for a father," Conservative said on his left, Southern drawl dripping with malice. "Abandoning your kids. Doesn't that make you just like your mother? Not the dead one, the Brit."

America flinched. Conservative was so, so loud...had he taken his pill yet? No. Neglecting basic needs seemed to be a hobby of his. America fumbled to dig through his suitcase, trying to find his medication. Turns out, it's extremely hard to search for things when you're sobbing.

Conservative kept tossing jeers as America searched. "Can't even take care of your own country, huh? Had to go flirt with the commie? I think you and I both know how that's going to go. He's a manipulative, lying bastard. You know how he treated his kids. He's probably the reason why they're so fucked now." Conservative's voice lowered to a malicious whisper. "He'll tear you to shreds, you pathetic piece of garbage."

America gave up on searching for the pill bottle, instead crawling into his bed and curling into the fetal position. The voices wouldn't shut up, and they were right. He was a failed father. He was pathetic. How could he have ever thought he was a good dad, when he left his kids like that?

Something in him snapped. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe, his grasp on the world around him was slipping, oh god oh no please not now breathe in out in out-

Liberal and Democrat had joined in to the roasting match. "You don't listen to your people!" Liberal shouted. "You hypocrite!" Democrat screeched.

He pressed his hands over his ears, choking on his own sobs. "Please, stop..." He murmured to no one.

They didn't stop, and his hands over his ears did nothing to silence them. His lungs ached from hyperventilating. Stupid stupid stupid stupid!

He needed someone, someone to distract or help. All of his kids weren't options. He couldn't, wouldn't let himself seem weak in front of them. His mothers were probably asleep. The only people who would be awake would be Soviet and Russia, and Russia wouldn't want to handle him in this state. Soviet...he could help. He'd dealt with America's panic attacks before, albeit in the 40s, but still.

He nearly dropped his phone trying to find the Messenger app. All four parties screamed at him, any mix of horrible things, paranoia and anger blending into an abusive cocktail. Their insults were diverse, ranging from Conservative's jeers of homophobic slurs to Liberal's screams of THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO PROTECT US. ARE SUPPOSED TO PROTECT US.

America fumbled to type the message, hands shaking and vision blurring through his tears.

: Soviet I need help

: please

: having an attack

Soviet answered right away, not with a text, but a FaceTime call. When America answered, the concern on Soviet's face was palpable. He suddenly realized just how much of a mess he must be. Messy hair, tears streaming down his face, probably snot everywhere. "I-I'm sorry I don't want to bother you, I can hang up. I shouldn't have called-"

"America. I want to help. I'm glad you called." Soviet's voice was soft, soothing. It was a tone he hadn't heard from anyone, in years. He hated confiding in people. His paranoia got in the way, intrusive thoughts like a plague.

"Why are you talking to him? He'll just use this to manipulate you," Republican, a usually quiet voice, whispered in America's ear. America made a noise similar to a whimper and curled in on himself further. He was still hyperventilating, and his eyes burned with tears.

"America," Soviet said in a firm but soft voice.

"Focus on me. You need to breathe."

"I-I-I can't, Sovi, they won't shut up." He hated this. Hated looking weak, hated that Soviet had to see him this way. Why had he even called? Stupid, stupid mistake. You idiot. Good for nothing idiot.

"Focus on me," Soviet repeated. "I'm right here. Try to breathe, okay? In ten seconds, out ten seconds."

America nodded. It felt like the world was sitting on his lungs, preventing him from breathing. Still, he tried his best to breathe. Breathing during a panic attack was a gradual process. To go from hyperventilating to slow, even breaths took painful minutes. Once he'd calmed down enough that his shoulders stopped jerking erratically, he managed to speak without stuttering. "Why did you help me?"

Soviet blinked, clearly surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"

"I...we're barely friends. I don't know why you helped." Was this America talking, or was this his paranoia? Hell if he knew. He pawed at his face with his shirt sleeve, wiping any stray tears away. It did nothing.

Soviet looked almost...hurt? He glanced away from the phone at something else in the room.

"Ромашка, you're an idiot if you think I would let you suffer through that alone."

"You did back then."

Soviet flinched. America hadn't meant to be mean. Or maybe he had. He was tired and exhausted and frustrated and confused. It felt like someone was taking an ice pick to his skull, and his stomach growled indignantly. All of this seemed to culminate into some bitterness cocktail, making him lash out.

"America," Soviet paused, clearly thinking his wording through. "I know I can't apologize for leaving you, but I had no idea what you were going through. You'd scream at me for no reason, and then when I tried to help you pushed me away. I didn't want to leave you. It was self preservation."

He sighed before continuing. "If I had known you had shell shock, I would've helped. I should've. I'm sorry."

Something near the place America called a heart fluttered. He'd apologized, and it had been genuine. America had been so bitter to him for years, and Soviet still had the heart to apologize.

Shortly after the bombings and Japan's surrender, all of his trauma hit at once. He'd have thrashing nightmares, waking up to a terrified Soviet. Once, he'd gotten violent in his sleep, and woke up with his hands around Soviet's throat. He'd felt so guilty after that, spending the day drinking and smoking the pain away. The days were almost worse than the nights, and he often walked around in a whiskey-induced daze. He'd been irritable and scared and alone, and he'd taken it out on his lover. When Soviet left him, America had felt betrayed, and he'd held that pain close, turned it into a weapon. A weapon that had tore them apart further, shredded any positive memories.

He had no reason to hold onto that bitterness anymore. He could let it go, let himself move on. Couldn't he? "I'm sorry too. I...I was scared, Sovi."

"I know."

They sat in silence for what felt like eons, America letting the tears subside and Soviet keeping him peaceful company. Soviet looked nervous, like he had something else to say but couldn't quite spit it out. Once America's panic attack had faded to a few sniffles, Soviet spoke. "America, why me? Why not call your mothers or your kids?"

America sighed. This was the question he'd been dreading, but it had one simple answer.- "You're the only option I have."

Soviet fell silent again, avoiding looking at his phone. Silence. Always silence. America hated silence, always had and always will. So many empty spaces, words unsaid, never to be said. Missed opportunities and mistakes.

America's stomach growled again, breaking the silence. He needed food, and sleep, but he wanted neither. He wanted a hug, maybe a kiss or a tea, but the person he wanted them from was millions of miles away.

Soviet raised an eyebrow. "America, when was the last time you ate?"

"It doesn't matter," He snapped.

"It does. Answer the question."

"On the plane this morning," America murmured, like a child who'd been caught doing something wrong. Idiot.

"Go eat, and then sleep. Please," Soviet pleaded. He looked worried, eyebrows furrowed. America hated it. He didn't want anyone to worry about him, nonetheless Soviet. Some deep, dark part of him liked it, but he shoved that away. No need for that crap right now.

"I can't. I have to work. I have to fix this," America pushed himself up, holding the phone in one hand. His whole body seemed to scream No! Go back to bed! He ignored his body's pleas, instead stumbling his way to his desk and laptop in a daze. His hands were shaking as he opened it. Whether that be from the panic attack or the hunger was a mystery.

Soviet, lord of being observant, noticed this and didn't fail to comment. "America, please. You're of no use to your kids if you're destroying yourself like this."

"I-I have to fix this," America whispered, but even that seemed like a pitiful argument. He wanted the food, he wanted sleep. He couldn't rest, he had to work, work, work.

But Soviet was right. He was of no use to his kids if he was starving and exhausting himself. How could he help his people in such a state? He couldn't. Suddenly ashamed, America sighed. "I...I'll go eat. And sleep. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to me. Now go eat. I'm hanging up now." True to his word, he hung up before America could say goodbye.

America stumbled his way to his flat's kitchen and made himself a small bowl of cereal. If he ate too much now, he'd vomit. As he was eating, the shakes in his hands and fog in his mind gradually cleared, and he mulled their dialogue over. He'd always been an over thinker, pondering every last bit of a

conversation.

His mind latched on to one thing- Ромашка. Soviet had called him that twice now, at the fire and today. What did it mean?

Feeling oddly curious, he ran it through Google Translate. While he did speak fluent Russian, he didn't know every word. The man spoke 5 languages, he didn't have brain space left to memorize every single word.

Chamomile. A flower, used in comfort teas and meaning "energy in adversity". Surely none of these meanings mattered, then it clicked.

Chamomile was the Russian national flower.

America was his flower.

———————

Author's Note

I'm mildly disgruntled that this chapter doesn't hit my 3000 word count goal I've set up for myself, but it's close enough. 2,700 is fine, I guess. I like setting lofty goals for myself apparently.

I hope I'm portraying his schizophrenia right. I put a lot of research into it when I give a character a mental illness so I strive for accuracy. If I'm not, I'm so sorry.