This chapter is not meant to offend, harm, or insult anyone or anybody. This is made purely for entertainment. Thank you for understanding.

*Causally posts after three months*

This chapter is pretty deep. The message is very symbolic and you might find it a bit confusing TwT Hopefully this translated as well as it did in my head.

:)

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⚠️Warning: Manipulation, Physiological Abuse(?) ⚠️

[2044 Words]

[Iraq's POV]

America strained a smile. "Let's talk, yeah?"

Iraq stayed sitting in his seat, boldly crossing his arms over his chest. "There is nothing to talk about."

"I disagree."

"I have already said what I have wanted to say." Iraq huffed. "We don't need you, and we don't need your country. This is not helping us. This is occupation!"

"Your soldiers walk through our streets. Your planes take up our airports. My people work day and night for the war effort they shouldn't even have." Iraq continued, getting riled up the more he talked. "We would be so much better off without you. My country would be so much better off without you."

And it was bold. It was a bold thing to say, especially to the said country in front of him with the state of mind the said country was in. But Iraq didn't know that. He was just angry, and he wanted to express it.

Too bad that wasn't the way things worked around here.

"Better off? Without me?" America repeated slowly.

The room dropped a couple of degrees. Iraq stilled. He slowly rose his gaze up from his hands.

"That's what I just said." Iraq answered.

In a moment, America was behind him. His fingers traced over the back of Iraq's chair, sending chills down his spine. He tried to shoot up and turn around to face America, but America was quick to push him back down into his seat.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Hands clamped down on his shoulders. Iraq felt like he should shrug them off, but the heavy gaze on the back of his head urged otherwise.

Iraq was not afraid. He was not afraid.

"Without me, you are nothing but the dirt under our feet." America stated, like it was a fact. "You are pathetic— you are weak. That is just who you are. Do you really think you could be more of that without me? You would be in the same situation as your neighbors, destroyed over and over again. You would stand no chance."

Iraq immediately got heated, and rightfully so. His face turned red and his fists clenched in anger.

He opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. His teeth clattered as he jaw snapped back shut.

Underneath his anger, Iraq also felt a pang of sadness. It was small, and it was slight.

But it was still there.

Like a parasite. Waiting. Waiting for the right conditions, for the right moment. Was America the right condition for this parasite?

Because Iraq already knew he was looked down on by other countries. The stares, the looks, the flinches away from him.

No has ever said it aloud, though. Never so cruelly, never so bluntly.

Iraq was not afraid.

"Without me, would you still even be alive?" America pondered aloud. Red eyes flashed behind his sunglasses, his signature smile nowhere to be seen.

A cold exterior had settled over the Western personification. He was much different than what Iraq was used to.

Usually when Iraq would speak out, America would just grin and shrug. He'd have that confidence that he was always control, so he'd never really cared what Iraq said or did.

But now... things as simple as words were getting to him. What was going on?

And why did Iraq wish for the old America in this moment?

"Iraq," America called out. The grip on Iraq's shoulders tightened, almost like America knew the other's mind was wandering. "Remember this when I say it."

"You are nothing without me."

And just like that, the parasite spread. Iraq tried pushing it down, but it was hard. It was hard when it kept growing everytime America spoke.

"Don't ever question what I do. Don't ever question why I do it. Don't ever question my control." America said, and this time it came out more like a hiss. "Got it?"

...

"Got it."

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[Turkey's POV]

Turkey took in a deep breath.

He inhaled. He exhaled.

Nervous hands came to hover over his suit, pressing down non-existent wrinkles and fixing cuffs that were already near perfect. Turkey smoothed down his hair, but even then he felt like he still was a bit messy. A bit shaken. A bit traumatized.

He could still hear the ringing of bombs. The echos of screaming and yelling.

A third world war. Can you believe that?

Turkey could hear quiet mumblings of a conversation behind the closed doors ahead of him. He could only wonder what they were speaking of, hoping desperately they weren't ill words directed towards him.

And while yes, he was European, just like them, there had always been this divde. He never understood them. They never understood him.

It was a push and pull of communication, and one that didn't seem to be stopping anytime soon.

Turkey just hoped that this one time they could come to a middle ground. If not for him then at least for his allies in the Middle East.

That's who this whole meeting was for, anyways.

It was a call-- no, a cry for help.

One that was so desperate that they had to come to the conclusion that they were their only hope.

Because they were, in the end. They were all the Middle East had.

Asia was too far away. They wouldn't make it in time.

The Americas were already dealing with their own problems. They were sitting ducks living right next to the enemy.

And the others... would they even be able to help? It was no question that America was strong. There were only few who could step up to him. Even fewer who could step against him.

Turkey sighed. These thoughts were not helping him calm down. He needed to breathe.

He inhaled. He exhaled.

Turkey pushed open the doors, stepping into the room with his head held high.

===

SLAM!

POA turned his head as America walked out of the meeting room. Everyone who had been kicked out were just milling about, either leaning against the wall, head faced downwards towards their phone, or talking with a close co-worker.

POA had been the former, but quickly stuffed his phone away as the heated personification stormed towards him. But it's not like his tantrum was obvious. POA could only tell due to the way America carried himself, with tense shoulders and a straight back.

"What did you say?" POA asked calmly.

America ran both his hands through his hair, his shoes clacking on the floor a bit too harshly. "It was nothing. Just a small chat." He replied.

POA raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't seem that way."

"What happened is only between me and Iraq. Outside ears don't need to know." America said, a scowl forming on his lips. He was refusing to make eye contact. "Can we go?"

POA stepped in front of America. "Hold on—"

America pushed past POA, shoulder-checking the taller man. He barely made it two steps before a firm grip enveloped his wrist.

POA didn't want to make a scene, but since America liked being difficult, it seemed like he had no choice. How long was it going to take before America actually listens to him??

"You're going to tell me what happened." POA demanded. His grip tightened, even when he knew it couldn't hurt America. "When I ask a question, I expect to be answered. Especially by you."

America snatched his wrist away from POA. His eyes darted around, taking in the quieting whispers and the knowing stares. Always so worried about his image.

"I said it was nothing! Why do you want to know so badly?" America hissed. "Why are you always so nosey? So—

—controlling!" America cried. But his voice was squeakier, more high-pitched. He wasn't America anymore. He was Thirteen.

It was winter in the early 1700s, and many people were safely tucked inside their homes, fireplaces burning and candles flickering. Snow covered the dirt paths and roofs shook from the wind.

Snowflakes and small pieces of ice hit Thirteen's exposed face, his cheeks red and his hair frozen. His breath came out in small puffs, his teeth clattering against each other.

He tried standing as tall as he could. It wasn't much, especially compared to the man in front of him, but it was the effort that counted. The motive.

"Why can't I lead my own country?" Thirteen asked naively, clutching his forearms as he tried not to shake from the cold. "I can do it and you know it! You're always micro-managing everything, even when you're across the sea! Wouldn't it be better if I took the lead? I know my people better. It would make sense."

The British Empire looked down upon the small colony. Unlike Thirteen, he stood in an enormous coat, keeping him warm and protected from the cold. His large tricorne hat kept the snow out of his eyes, while also  providing his status and power as someone from the top.

"You really don't know how this works, do you?" The British Empire muttered, more to himself than anything. The boy had run up to the harbor for him before he could set sail back to the mainland, demanding his attention even when he could barely talk through clattering teeth. Waves crashed lazily onto the dock, the British Empire's men waiting patiently on the ship behind him.

"What do I d-don't get?" Thirteen asked.

"I am a colonizer. You are my colony." The British Empire stated calmly. "You are secondary to me. I will always have the control."

Thirteen looked hurt. But then he bit his cheek, his face morphing into something even fiercer.

"But I want control too! Can't we just share?"

The British Empire only laughed. He patted Thirteen's head, the action making Thirteen feel powerless more than anything.

"Control is a delicate thing, son. It can never be shared."

And soon, that enormous coat started to look different. Those bright red eyes started to dull into darker ones. His clothing was replaced by a suit.

This wasn't just a memory. It was a pattern.

It was a cycle.

"Answer the question, America." POA said.

America felt like shaking, but there was no snow.

"I just told Iraq a few things to keep him in line." America answered. He added, defensively, "Wasn't that the whole reason why we came here?"

POA nodded, backing off now that he got what he wanted. "It is. And you did a wonderful job, America."

America's hands twitched. Like they wanted to clasp around his forearms. He felt cold.

But it wasn't even snowing.

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A/N:

I have a lot to say but I don't know how to put it into words lol. There are a few details I want to point out though.

-Cycle of abuse in this chapter with POA, America, and Iraq. POA is getting in America's head. Because of that, America hurts Iraq.

-Symbolism with snow/the cold. In the memory, America is a colony and it is snowing. He has no control. Now, America isn't a colony, but he still has no control. It shows the idea that America thinks he should have power (shouldn't be cold) because he isn't a colony (it isn't snowing). But he's out of the snow (an independent country) and it's still cold (no power).

-America is starting to listen to POA more. Before, he would ignore or storm away from POA. Now, when he tries to get away POA corners him and makes him answer his questions.

Let's all hope the next chapter will not take as long as this one to make and post. Who knows?

Anyways, thanks for reading!! I appreciate all the support. It keeps me going.

Hope to see you next time, goodbye!!

(💗 HAPPY EARLY VALENTINE'S DAY!! 💗)

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON JULY 30TH, 2023

EDITED ON FEBRUARY 12TH, 2025 ✅