There had been a time when America would have considered himself fairly level-headed. Mature, no. But he wasn't irrational.
Now he couldn't organize himself.
Was he in the wrong? God, he couldn't live with himself if he became the villain.
He was a hero, right? Wasn't Germany wrong? He had- kinda- said that he would bomb America.
Well not would.
Could.
Damn, did America mess up.
America sank to the floor against the wall. The clock beside his bed read 3:17 am.
America blinked and stared out the window. The stars cast enough light for him to see around his room. He hadn't brought much, just enough clothes for a few days. The room was empty and cold.
America dropped his head against the wall and groaned. But behind his eyelids pictures flashed.
What's happening? Is this what being insane feels like?
He felt shakey. Like his bones would rattle apart.
This wasn't supposed to happen. He said this wouldn't happen.
It would be so easy to blame Russia for this mess, but America couldn't bring himself to.
God, was he confused.
After a while, America stood up and quietly opened the door. He peaked into the dark hallway and slipped out of his room.
He didn't exactly know where he was going, but he needed to move around a little.
Grabbing his coat, America quietly opened the door and stepped out into the bitter weather that was considered a Russian spring.
America's thoughts were giving him a headache and for the first time in his life, America found himself loving the cold. He didn't walk far, just enough to be surrounded by woods, but still close enough to see Russia's house. Feeling as though he went far enough, America carefully sat down on a fallen tree and undid his sling, letting his aching arm hang for a little bit.
Unlike America's spring, the night was eerily silent and America had no choice but to address his thoughts. He took one last look at the house and closed his eyes, then leaned forward and rest his head on one hand.
America had no idea how much time passed before he became painfully aware of footsteps approaching.
He tensed and lifted his head staring into the darkness. He looked towards Russia's house and noted that there was a light on now.
America stood up, before realizing how tired he really was.
And cold. God, was he cold.
"You really shouldn't be out here." Russia's voice sounded from the dark.
America couldn't help but jump, "Shit, dude! Don't do that!" America was able to now distinguish the outline of the large Russian.
A menacing silhouette in the cold moving closer to him.
America had half a mind to run. As Russia neared him, America became painfully aware of his shivering. Russia shucked off his coat and carefully draped it over America's shoulders, making their bodies momentarily flush. America pulled the coat a little tighter to his body, "Thank you."
"Pozhaluysta."
"Bless you." America responded, returning to the log to sit down.
After a moment Russia joined him.
America sighed and then glanced over at Russia, noticing that all he was wearing was boots, a pair of cotton pants and a loose shirt. And he looked completely comfortable with it.
"Aren't you cold?" America asked.
"Nyet, I don't feel the cold."
America turned away again. Silence stretched between them. America searched his mess of a brain for something to talk about, but he didn't want to talk anymore.
Lamely, America asked how his head was, not even sure if he should.
"It's fine." Russia's answer was curt, and America kicked himself. "I'm sorry. I know that it hurts. I'm sorry about your city."
It was Russia turn to look at him. "You are talking like it hasn't happened to you. How are you handling this?"
"How do you think?"
"Not well if you decided to sit out here at four in the morning." America sighed, his fingers played with the strap of his sling, which was laying across his lap.
Russia tapped America's cheek, making him look up. "Let's talk in the morning. You need to rest."
"You're talking like you don't need to." America's mouth twitched into a small smile as Russia chuckled softly. Russia stood up and offered the  American a hand. America accepted it and stood up.
The two made their way back to Russia's house and at the door America handed back Russia's coat.
They bid each other good night and returned their own rooms.
And for the first time since the bombing, America flopped onto bed and fell asleep.
Unfortunately his nightmares didn't give him a break. America dreamt of his people dying, burning alive. He heard their screams even after he woke up in a cold sweat. He rolled onto his side and pulled the pillow up against him, sobbing into the fabric.
I failed them. I failed them.
America kept crying. His glasses, which he had forgotten to take off, pressed uncomfortably into his nose.
Eventually America stopped crying and rolled onto his back again, and laid there for the rest of the night, his brain refusing to submit to sleep again, out of fear of the nightmares that would surely come.