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they were crying when their sons left;
Summary: Based on the fragments of the doujin "Lost."
“What are you waiting for?” England folded his hands across his lap, composed and dignified. “Press the button.”
--
Sometimes, Alfred dreamed.
He used to tell Arthur about the roaming hamburgers who threatened to eat him instead, or vague monsters from underneath his bed, conjured on one Hollow’s Eve that never returned. But he would never tell Arthur about his real nightmares, the ones where he wasn’t the hero, and he would stand waist-deep in mud and blood, the butt of his gun resting against his hand, but no one left to shoot.
Now his dreams turned more towards the Revolutionary War, where the cannons resounded over his grassy slopes, rumbling beneath his very feet. The cold slick of rain on his face, his ragged uniform sticking to him as he stared down the barrel of the rifle, its sharp point close to his chest. England could have shot or stabbed, he would have died either way. But the affection in his eyes betrayed him, and he dropped his rifle into the splatter of mud.
“I can’t do it,” England always said, his slim shoulders heaving. The rain coursed down over his face, mixing over the tears of his face. He fell to his knees, and the blood on his white trousers melded with the dripping mud.
But that was always when the dream became twisted, fragmented, and Alfred was always surprised when England’s head snapped back up, and he always screamed and stumbled back when he saw that England’s face was disappearing in black ash, half his face still perfectly contorted in a wild smirk. The skin dripped off his white bones and the white bones turned black and Alfred screamed.
“But you did it, didn’t you, Al?” The gloved hand reached out to him, even as England crumbled away. “Oh wait--you couldn’t even do me that much.”
“No--I’m sorry--I’m sorry--”
“You betrayed me again, didn’t you, Al?” He always wished that England would stop calling him by that name, and his body always shuddered as the grip only tightened even when England was disappearing. He looked around for his soldiers, but they had all been replaced with other countries, their eyes cold, disapproving, surrounding him in a half-circle.
“You used to be so big, Al,” England said, and even his smirk disappeared under the black ash and the water kept rushing over him but the grip still felt like iron and cold on his arm.
He woke up with his right arm clenched around his left, leaving dark bruises. Nobody commented on those.
Nobody had the right.
--
He had been a child when he had asked the question, after the passing away of England’s King. It had been after the ceremony, and his hand was loosely wrapped around England’s hand, and though the spectators cried and wept, England’s face was dry.
“Do countries die?”
England looked down at him for a moment, bushy eyebrows drawing together in a moment of consternation. It had been a cold day, and a light drizzle was slowly dashing across the land.
“You’re too young to worry about that now,” England finally said.
“If we die,” he insisted, “What happens to us?”
“This isn’t something you have to think about.”
“You come home with wounds,” Alfred insisted. “If you keep going to war--will you die?”
“. . . No, Alfred,” England said, and then he peered into the sky, tipping his triangular hat upwards. “I suppose it’s time to tell you about it.”
“Do we die like humans?” Alfred asked in a small voice. So many had passed away from disease, and the cold, and starvation.
“In some ways. We are countries, Alfred, don’t forget that. We have a responsibility, and we must see it through. For as long as our people believe in us, we will exist. But if something should happen, we will--cease to be.” England gazed at a printing press shop.
“I don’t want you to leave me,” Alfred said in a small voice.
“I won’t,” he said. “Didn’t I say it? You won’t have to worry about this for a long time. A long, long time, my boy.” His hand brushed against Alfred’s hair. “And I can’t leave you, love. Even if I become nothing more than a relic of history--”
And here, he swooped down and picked up Alfred, swinging him into his arms. He smiled fondly at Alfred, and there were many times that Alfred wished that he had smiled back. “--I will always be in your heart.”
--
It had started on a bright, sunny day, when Alfred had been sitting with Arthur, Matthew, and Francis. Like always Arthur had tears in his eyes after they had a hearty round of insulting his scones, and they left the blackened pieces of dough on their plates as they talked about trivial matters, getting upset, laughing, listening in complacency.
A man in black, however, came to their table.
“Pardon the interruption,” he said in a low voice. “But the President requires your immediate presence.”
“Eh? Did I leave the faucet on?” Alfred stood up from the table, taking his jacket from the back of his chair. “Sorry, guys! But I need to go save the day again!”
“Don’t say again when you haven’t saved it in the first place, prat,” Arthur muttered, eating his own scones.
The walk back to the White House had been short, and the ride up the elevator even shorter. When he came to the Oval Office, he found the president sitting on the chair, looking solemn at the papers in front of him.
“Sit down, Alfred,” he said. To the Secret Service, he only nodded them away.
“What’s wrong?” Alfred fingered the thick pack of papers that had not been there the day before. “Is it something to do with global warming?” Those talks always were heavy and came compiled with data that reached the sun.
“The CIA has discovered a nuclear missile, and according to our information, it can destroy the world five times over.” Alfred stared down at the papers in front of him. He started to say something, but his lips were dry. He licked his lips and tried again.
“How… How confident--”
“It’s a fact, Alfred,” the president said firmly, but he could see the president’s hand tremble slightly as he picked up another paper. “We have determined the location of the warheads. The good news is that we can disarm them.”
“Then--that’s great!” Relief swept over him like a cold glass of water splashing over him. “Let’s do it!”
“The bad news,” the president said, “is the location.” He drew forward a map, which Alfred had used to look up the addresses of his friends and enemies alike.
He stared down at the black circle.
--
Ludwig had approached him. The war-scarred man sat beside him on the bench as he fed the small, fluffy yellow birds, that chirped for more of the bread crumbs.
“It was the responsible thing to do,” he said.
“… Yeah?” Alfred took another handful of bread crumbs, scattering them about. It felt surreal that the sun could still be shining and the clouds still floating. “I’m not sure if it was the right thing to do.”
“I hear my own brother, sometimes.” Ludwig stretched his muscled arms in the bright sun. “He calls to me from the other room. He tells me, ‘West! Are you drinking again? Take me with you, West!’” His sharp eyes grew somber.
Alfred watched as the fluffy birds chirped at Ludwig, obviously pleased by his familiar presence.
“I drink the most on those nights,” he said distantly. “So I can hear him more. I hear him the best on dark nights when I’m lonely. Sometimes he’s older, sometimes younger. Tells me to--” Here, he chuckled. “To straighten up so he could fix my tie.”
“They seem like good memories.”
“I see his death, too.” Ludwig passed a hand over his eyes. “He’s smiling. He always said that the only things he knew was--war. But he was wrong. How could hands that only knew war raise a child--?” He gave another short laugh, and Alfred pretended not to see the twisted hurt on his face.
“I’m sorry for taking up your time,” Ludwig said abruptly, rising up from the bench. He hesitated, and then gave a sharp salute. “People can say what they want about the country. But your brother was a good man.”
“… Thanks.” Alfred combed through his hair recklessly with his hand, unable to raise his gaze from the ground. Ludwig expertly maneuvered around the chicks and picked up one of them, who chirped in happiness on his shoulder.
“It’s brother’s chick,” he said to Alfred. “I take care of him now.”
“How do you know which one it is?” He peered at the sea of golden fur. “They all look alike.”
Ludwig chuckled. “How could I forget? He was my brother’s, after all.” His finger reached up to tickle the small bird. “And I can never forget brother.”
Alfred watched as Germany strode away, and then absently wrapped his fingers around the bruises on his arm.
--
The world organization meeting was different. It had started the same, messily crowding together, arguing, squabbling. But silence slowly fell as they realized the one who had called the meeting, usually the loudest of then all, only stood with his back to the room, facing the wall.
Even Italy sat still as Alfred turned back to the round table. It was round to show that all countries were equal, circling around the globe. But today, it was clear who was the leader of their convention. Alfred gazed on the map stretched on the billboard, and touched it gently. He had caught sight of himself in front of the mirror before he left. His suit was slightly crumpled, and there were bags under his eyes.
“We’ve received a report on a threat,” he said in a low voice, “that could destroy the world five times over.” He continued in a low voice, and the papers were spread to all the countries, who took them with worried hands. There were no shouts of accusations, cursing, crying. They were countries.
He finally came to the most difficult part, a heavy lead in his throat. “The good news is,” he said hoarsely, “that we can disable the firearms. The problem is the location.” He gently traced his finger along the map to a spot in the ocean. “We’ll need to drop the newest technology on this spot--and it should deactivate the threat.”
“Then--” somebody said.
Alfred cut them off, back turned to the room. “Then,” he said heavily. “the weight will make the water rise tremendously. And the United Kingdom will be swallowed by the ocean.”
--
“He was a terrible man,” Francis said. He idly picked at the paperweight on Alfred’s desk. “Never honest, always shouting, a terrible drunk. A crybaby.”
“He didn’t cry,” Alfred murmured.
“What was that?”
“Before he died. He didn’t cry.”
“He cried at all the wrong times.” Francis looked fondly down at Alfred. “Be proud of your brother. He died with dignity.”
“You talked with him a lot,” Alfred said. “Was he… scared?”
“Mon cher,” Francis said, “Let me put this straight. We shared some history, your brother and I--hundreds of years worth of history. But you knew him best. He loved you, was completely devoted to you. And you put up with his talks, his rants, his tears.”
“… Was he scared?”
Francis sighed, stroking his beard. “He wanted to protect you,” he said at last. “He wanted to live to protect you. So, mon cher, forgive me, but I will not answer that question.”
“Why not?”
“He would not have wanted you to know.”
Alfred bowed his head and looked at his hands, clad in gloves. He rubbed against his ring of bruises absent-mindedly, gazing distantly at the stack of unanswered papers on his desk. Francis leaned against the table, still, looking out the doors.
“He was a fun drinking partner,” he mused. “Fun to tease. Lonely, always so lonely. Never cute. But powerful. The way he was before the end--it sent shivers down my spine. Every inch of history in him, every battle won, every ship taken.”
“Do you ever wish that you were with him more?”
“We had a grudge, mon cher. You should not be asking me this question, by yourself.” Still, Francis tilted his head downwards, fingers running down the length of coarse, bristly beard. “But if I had a choice--to fight with him one last time--to see his crying face--”
“I should have stayed with him more,” Alfred murmured. “He was… lonely.”
“Power brings loneliness. All his colonies left him, one by one by one.” Francis plucked at the plant sitting on Alfred’s desk. “But he said he was happy to see them all grown now.”
“He always seemed to like me better as a colony,” Alfred muttered.
“He missed the days you were cute. But he acknowledged you as someone to fight beside.” Francis slowly stroked the petal of the flower. “He was a good man.”
“I wasn’t--” Alfred swallowed heavily. “I wasn’t dignified at all. I couldn’t even--kill him--with the dignity he deserved--”
“He wanted to protect you,” Francis said simply. “That’s all there is to it.”
--
The road to his storage wasn’t new to him, and nor was the dust that rose from the room when he opened the door. It was crowded as always, having been kept the same after Lithuania had came around to dust it. When he pried open the checkered box, he could still see the wooden toy soldiers, lined up in a precious row. He reached out to stroke the coldness of his faithful friends.
England had always returned to him with wounds, gaping wounds that occasionally even bled out of the tight, white bandages. His face had poultice, his arm in a cast, walking with a limp. He always appeared exhausted, but smiled when he saw Alfred, always petting him and holding his hand and walking him back to the house so they could play for a little while.
He had been a pirate, sailing across the seas to attack the ships and raid for gold. Reckless, dashing, brutal, he would only show his kind side to Alfred, allowing the small boy to play with his plumed hat.
England had been so big to him, then. Alfred fiddled with the toy soldiers for a bit longer, recalling the long shadow that stretched along the ground, that lean muscles on the shoulders that he rode upon, the tan of his skin against the confident flash of white teeth.
It suddenly occurred to him that he wouldn’t see England again.
The thought made him lose his grip on the soldier, and he felt something clatter on the ground. When he looked down, he felt a wave of panic when he saw the arm had fallen off the soldier.
“No,” he said. He bent down, and inspected the damage with trembling hands. It had been a clean split, jarring enough so that he could not successfully place it back together, and possibly not even with glue. He looked around, but it was only him in the room of memories. He stood up, soldier clenched tightly in his hands, and stumbled towards the door.
He scraped along something on the way, and looked down to see his rifle with the scratch mark.
“But you did it, didn’t you, Al?” England asked with the crumbling sneer. “Oh, wait--you couldn’t even do me that much.”
--
Sealand bashed into him with his head, making him lose his grip on his drink. His cup crashed on the floor, the porcelain smashing into shards and fine white powder. Alfred stared down at the growing puddle of dark liquid.
“You bastard!” Sealand screamed, and he suddenly found himself with a boy gripping onto the front of his jacket. “You were the only one who could save him! You could have saved him! Why didn’t you save him?”
“I--” Alfred opened his mouth.
“You let him die!” Sealand shook him violently. “You killed him! You bastard, you killed him! Now he’s never going to acknowledge me! You bastard! You---”
Sweden sharply pulled him back, yanking him by the collar. The light reflected on his glasses, so Alfred could only imagine his expression.
“Let me go!” Sealand screamed, flailing wildly. “You’re all thinking it, right? You all know what he did! He’s a murderer! You couldn‘t even do it right when he was going to die!”
“But you would have died,” Alfred said stupidly.
“Then you should have found another solution, you bastard!” But before Sealand could spew out more profanities, a strong hand clamped firmly around his mouth. Sweden hesitated, not troubled by the squirming, angry boy in front of him, but how to approach Alfred.
He knew that was what they were all concerned about nowadays. How to approach him.
“’m sorry.” Sweden gave a short bow, and then he was dragging Sealand away.
Alfred watched them leave, before he bent down to pick away at the shards. The strong scent of tea wafted up at him from the drink, and he sat for a little while, trying to inhale a bit more of England. It wasn’t the same--not nearly as strong--and no matter how many times he tried to make scones, they didn’t come out burnt enough, or disgusting enough.
But at that moment, he would choose England’s smoking black scones over even France’s gourmet food, even over his own hamburgers, because after he ate them, he would turn around and see England’s expectant face, eagerly awaiting an answer.
He idly picked at a shard. They were all thinking it, he thought. For some reason, this comforted him.
--
“When?”
England’s sharp voice cut across the room.
Alfred turned, not daring to look directly at him. His heart felt heavy and twisted and mangled, and he could barely even stand, and he didn’t dare to look to see if his knees were trembling. The atmosphere of the room weighed down on his shoulder as the countries gazed at him.
“The latest time for the decision will be in a week,” he said. “We--haven’t found any alternatives--yet--”
England abruptly stood up, chair scraping along the floor. “Then,” he said, “let’s begin the evacuation plans. I’ll be requiring your help--”
“But we’re not sure if that’s the only method yet!” Alfred blurted out, and he realized that he felt like a child all over again, pleading with England. All the way across the table, with England standing straight and tall, he felt helpless and lost.
“It’s one country against the rest of the world,” England said. “What other choices are there?”
“But it’s you!” Alfred cried, and he ignored the other countries, ignored their stares, ignored their bated breath. He felt like he was being drenched in agony.
“Don’t underestimate me, Alfred.” England smirked. “I have always controlled the oceans. It is only right for the ocean to take back their own.”
“You--” Alfred swallowed violently. Anger rose within him. “Don’t you even get it? You’ll die!”
England scoffed, mouth twisting up into a smile. “Don’t cry, Alfred,” he said. “You’re not a child anymore. Now, there’s no time to waste. What resources is everyone willing to offer?”
--
The hamburger was tasteless. But Feliciano ate his pizza happily enough, though he seemed to be able to sense the atmosphere a little bit, and toned down his loud chewing. The busy Italian restaurant was full that night, the customers a loud murmur in the background.
“Ve,” Feliciano said. “You must be very busy!”
“Huh?”
“With all the British people coming,” Feliciano said. “From the evacuations, ve.”
“Ah,” Alfred said. “Yeah. Busy.” He took another bite of his hamburger before putting it down in front of him. He took up his soft drink, but he could only feel the bubbles fizz against his mouth.
“Ve,” Feliciano said, this time sadly. “You must be sad.”
“Yeah.” There wasn’t much more to say to that.
“It’s okay to be sad. I was sad, too.” Feliciano sucked up his drink loudly. “I cried a lot, ve.”
“For England?”
“Ve.” He couldn’t tell if Feliciano was responding negatively or positively to his question, but felt no motivation to pursue it. “I cried a lot when I heard Grandpa wasn’t here anymore. And when my first love wasn’t here anymore. And when Prussia went, too.”
Alfred looked at him. Despite his peaceful looks, Feliciano contained depths of history within him, more than merely pizza and pasta.
“Have you cried a lot?” Feliciano tilted his head, simple as always.
“Not since--then.”
“That’s no good. You have to cry lots and lots.”
“People have different ways of coping.”
“But you’re not coping, ve.” Feliciano looked concerned. “Are you still worried? Because--”
“I’m not worried!” Alfred slammed his drink down on the table, hard enough to rattle the dinnerware scattered on the white napkins. The restaurant was still too noisy for him to be heard, so only Feliciano looked shocked and trembled under the weight. But still, he reached out with one hand, and gripped Alfred’s hand tightly.
“It’s okay,” Italy said softly. “I was sad, too. But he’s still in your heart, ve. And even if he won’t come back, we’re countries, ve. The world moves.”
“. . . What?”
“I fell in love with my first love again,” Feliciano said simply. “Maybe one day the waters will rescind, ve, and you might raise a child of your own, ve.”
Alfred clenched his other fist, and looked away. “I see,” he lied.
“Hey, you bastard!” Lovino knocked away a chair as he approached them. “That’s where you are! Me and Spain have been waiting!”
“Ve, I forgot~!”
“Don’t use that line on me, damnit!” Lovino yanked up his brother by the ear, looking disgruntled. He noticed Alfred, and scowled even harder. “And you can pay for the bill!”
“Sure.” Alfred reached into his pocket for his wallet.
“No~! Don’t be so mean!” Feliciano flailed wildly.
“Eh? What was that, you shitty brother?” Lovino huffed, but he pulled out his own wallet and tossed a few crumpled bills on the table. “Now, let’s go. Go on, damnit!”
“Ve~!” Feliciano scampered through the building, where the figure of Spain could be seen by the doorway. Lovino sighed angrily, crossing his arms across his chest sternly. He looked at Alfred and scowled again.
“Listen, you,” he said threateningly, grabbing Alfred by the collar. “Hey! Are you listening? Listen to me, damnit!”
“I’m listening,” Alfred said, pouting but waiting for the inevitable threat that came with interacting with Lovino’s brother.
“Spain’s got this saying. Ehh, what was that shitty--ah, something like, no hay mal que dure 100 anos. Do you even know what that means, you shithead?”
“I don’t speak Spanish,” Alfred pouted.
Italy scowled. “Fine! Then it kinda means, there’s no evil that lasts for a hundred years! So, damnit--just--damnit!” He tossed Alfred back down into the chair and stormed off, raging as always.
Alfred sat there, stunned for a moment, as he slowly realized that Lovino had been trying to comfort him. He chuckled darkly, and put his head in his hands. With the threat of the end of the world, the countries had begun to show their true colors--and their true kindness.
--
“Fix it, aru?” Yao examined the toy soldier.
“You have to fix it,” Alfred said urgently. “You have to.”
“Ehh… I’ll do my best, aru.” Yao placed it gently on his workbench, and raised his sleeves, tying them back. He reached for his toolkit, before glancing back at Alfred, who was intently watching.
“You look tired, aru.”
“Yeah. I haven’t really been sleeping well.” Alfred rubbed at his eyes. “Nightmares.”
Yao did not say anything, but began to repair the soldier gently. “I have medicine that will make you sleep better. All natural, no chemicals.”
“No, that’s all right,” Alfred said, sitting down at the nearby bench. The humidity made his shirt stick to his skin, and he took off his jacket. “Sometimes, I think the dreams are the only things that are keeping me real.”
“We are very familiar with dreams,” China said, beginning to slowly press the pieces together. “They are real, but they are not real. Remember the difference, aru.”
“I know they aren’t real,” Alfred said, looking down at his hands. “But at the same time--it’s--can I tell you about them?”
“If you wish. I will keep your dream safe.”
“It’s the war again,” he said. “The Revolutionary War. He’s going to shoot me, but he can’t, so he drops his gun. And then he--starts crumbling away--and I can’t do anything to stop it. I tried to reach him once, but he just disappeared in front of me. And he kept on--smiling.”
“A death with a smile is not a terrible way to go,” Yao said.
“But it’s not a happy smile. He’s--laughing at me, because I failed him. He blames me.” Alfred looked down at his hands. “He hates me.”
He did not see the fist coming at him, and was knocked back from the bench, astounded by the power. He collapsed against the wall, China hovering above him with a steady fist. There were distinct times when their identities as countries suddenly became aflame with realism, and this was the moment where Alfred could see the thousand of years of Chinese history etched into Yao’s face.
“Do not say that,” he said simply. “He did not blame you.”
“But I killed him--!”
“He is not the type to hate his own brother. He had older brothers before you, and he cried when they bullied him, aru.” Yao picked up the toy soldier from the bench and tossed it Alfred, who caught it safely. The wood had been put back together, only a faint scratch showing any remains of the injury.
“But his little brothers were precious, aru. He loved all of you, even if you left him.” Yao touched his shoulder, reminiscent of a former memory. “How could he hate his brother, aru? Especially one who stood beside him once more.”
“What about you?” Alfred looked at him angrily, rubbing at his reddening jaw. “Do you hate any of your brothers?”
China smiled sadly. “I am hurt, aru. But that is not the answer you are looking for.“ He suddenly knelt down, long black hair running down against the red of his silk shirt. One hand gently petted Alfred’s hair. “He did not hate you, child.”
--
It was Halloween. Usually, Alfred would have been shaking in fear for the incoming attack from Arthur. Instead, he sat in his room, Kiku sipping tea on their usual meeting.
“I miss him, as well,” the timid man said. “We had a good relationship.”
“Hey,” Alfred said, staring at his wall. “He was always talking to his--fairies. He must have been seeing things but--if they were real--can I talk to them today?”
Kiku placed down his teacup, sitting straight and tall. “Perhaps not.”
“Why not?” Alfred flushed. “Because they aren’t real?”
“Because they may not exist anymore,” Kiku said. “It is a strange thing when countries cease to exist. The English fairies may have disappeared as well.”
“… He was always just imagining them, anyway,” Alfred muttered. But there was a rotting hollowness in his stomach as he tried to think of what little more he had of his brother, what small remains that still surfaced under the tidal waves. He felt heavily drowsy, and allowed himself to doodle on the pad in front of him.
“Do you not wish to celebrate the holiday?” Kiku asked gently.
“Not this year.” Alfred glanced at the door. “It’s just like Germany said. Sometimes I just--expect him. To come bursting in here, laughing at me. I’m not--supposed to care so much, right? It’s--better--that he died! It’s better that the stupid bastard died--and left me--all alone--”
Japan sipped his tea. “You performed him a great dishonor in his death,” he said quietly, and it was enough to break Alfred’s maniacal rant. He quieted immediately, pen stopped in the black downward spiral.
“I--”
“But it made him very happy.” Japan put down his cup, and his dark eyes stared straight at Alfred. “Dignity and honor is important, but to die with a smile is honor and dignity combined.”
--
“Just say the word,” Alfred whispered. He had caught England into a small conference room. Neither of them had gotten much sleep, dark bags under their eyes. It was quiet, very quiet, and the morning sun was still rising through the grimy window on the corner. Alfred sat on a chair, while England sat on the green sofa, sipping his fragrant tea in his white cup. He looked tired, but he still smiled.
“Say what word?”
“If you don’t want me to do it,” Alfred said urgently. “I won’t.”
“Mutual destruction isn’t an option either. And since you haven’t found another solution, I can only assume this is the only viable solution now.”
“Don’t use those words on me!” Alfred breathed heavily. “But I can’t kill my own brother! That’s not what heroes do!”
There was a brief silence, and England chuckled darkly, placing down his teacup on a dusty table. He leaned against the sofa, idly running his finger down his black belt. He was dressed in his military uniform, the crisp darkness of it stark against the faded sofa.
“Heroes save the world,” England said, drawing on his black gloves. “Isn’t that what you’re going to do, Alfred? I’m proud of you.”
“I don’t want to kill you!” Suddenly, he was at England’s knees, gripping his wrists urgently. “Just tell me not to do it,” he said in a low, panicked voice. “And I won’t do it. I’ll die with you.”
“And what about the other countries?”
“England--”
Suddenly, England laughed, and leaned forward to place his fingers through Alfred’s hair, gently weaving them in and out of the bright strands. “Thank you, Alfred,” he murmured, “For thinking about choosing me over the world.”
Alfred sat on his knees, staring on the dirty rug.
“If I had a choice, I’d spend my last days with you--all of you--and we would laugh and be angry, wouldn’t we? I want to see your next birthday, I want to have one last drink, I want so many things. But I’m so glad to see that you’ve grown into such a fine man.” England gave his hair one last tussle, and then rose from his chair and walked away, leaving Alfred sitting on the floor, balling his fists against his thighs.
--
There was a funeral. Nobody recorded the names or planned the seating, but nobody complained, and there were only small murmurs and no shouts.
Alfred watched them trickle in, numbly. He could hardly feel anything, though his heart swelled and dropped abruptly as he waited for England to stride in, brows furrowed, loud, with his crying face, or maybe his drunk face. He waited, and waited, patiently.
Someone was giving a speech. He was too busy staring at the door to notice, but he suddenly found somebody poking him in the ribs.
“Will England’s family--brothers, children--stand?”
He found himself on his feet, none too steadily. He was the only one for a moment, but when he glanced back, he could see Hong Kong behind him, face complacent, holding a string of firecrackers. Then there came Seychelles, in a simple black dress and emotional face. Even Sealand stood up, his face still red from tears. And more and more stood, rising slowly but immensely like a tidal wave. Even Francis stood beside Alfred, and chuckled deeply into his ear.
“Our lonely man was loved, wasn’t he?” France smiled fondly. "As long as the world revolves--countries will always be connected."
--
It had come. The moment had come, and Alfred’s hand was trembling. The world conference table was silent, and he sweated. He knew that if he didn’t press the button, somebody else would, and he had insisted on doing the job, which was why his sweating palm was pressed against the black metal and his thumb rested against the large red button.
England sat beside him, without his usual cup of tea. He said he had drank plenty before, and no weak tea at a world conference would please him as much.
“What are you waiting for?” England folded his hands across his lap, composed and dignified. “Press the button.”
“Shut up! It has to be--ceremonial.”
“Ah, yes. Traditions.” He seemed to be waiting patiently, watching Alfred with too much fondness in his eyes to be natural. Alfred scowled at him.
“I’m going to press the button,” he said.
“Well, you should do it soon,” England said, tossing a glance at the multiple clocks on the wall. “There’s only a few minutes left.”
He was sweating. He was suddenly sweating heavily, under the collar of his heavy jacket. It was one thing to be a hero--but not this kind of hero, who would kill his own brother for the greater good. He hesitated, and looked around. The other countries wore somber faces, elegant, dignified, sorrowful.
His thumb ran along the edges of the red button. He would press it. He was a hero.
But his glance continued to fall onto England, who sat on his right. He wore his military uniform again, no particular awards hanging from his jacket. If anything, his outfit was simple, brighter than usual, but no less sturdy. He bent his head slightly to adjust his boots, his dusty blond hair falling over his bushy eyebrows.
“I’m going to do it,” he said loudly, and his voice broke across the room. He felt his shirt stick to him. “I’m going to do it--now!”
He was going to push the button suddenly, so quickly that he would feel no pain, but a sudden stab of nostalgia hit him across the chest. He could see England when they were younger, picking him up and swinging him around. He could see England returning back on a ship, bringing him toys, see him during the Revolutionary War, see him during the World Wars, see him wounded, see him bleeding, see him laughing see him drunk see him cooking
“America!” England slammed his palms against the table. “Do it now!”
“I-” Alfred wavered. “I can’t.”
His quiet admission rang throughout the room, and he shuddered. “I won’t, and you can’t--”
The clock ticked loudly, the time nearing before it would be too late to do anything. He slammed the remote down onto the table, and felt the hot tears threatening him. “I won’t do it!”
“You’re the hero,” England insisted angrily. “Press the button.”
“No--I can’t--”
The alarm suddenly rang, and he jerked to look up at the clock. And then he felt a soft click beneath him, and when he looked down again, England’s warm thumb was on top of his own finger, and he had pressed down at the button. There was a deafening silence in the room as the alarm abruptly fell silent, and England gripped Alfred’s arm tightly, staggering forward as he began to lose his balance.
The effects were rapid, and blood began to drip from his mouth, his face whitening considerably. But his face was affixed into a mad grin, the same one that he had seen when England had donned on his pirate hat.
“Don’t underestimate me,” England said hoarsely. “I am the British Empire. I have--sailed the seven seas, I have raided ships, I have planted my feet--throughout the world--” He was weakening, that was obvious, but that only lit the fire further in his bright eyes. At that moment, Alfred felt the might and grip of the empire against him, every inch of him a country, the history so real that he could have almost reached out and gripped it.
“England--” Alfred reached out to hold him steady, but it was unnecessary. His grip was tight against Alfred’s arm, the same place where Alfred would press upon his own bruises later. He trembled under England hoarse words, which resounded loudly in the room.
“The days of legends, the days of now,” he said. “We fought in the wars, achieved our goals. I am a gentleman.” His woozy eyes suddenly focused on Alfred, and he seemed saddened for a moment. “I’m sorry to have to put you through--this--”
“England!” This time, when he reached out to steady him, England only fell against his arm and back down into his chair. His breathing became heavier, rolling slowly even as the blood splattered across his collar and uniform and desk, lean body trembling in violent spasms.
“Hey,” England whispered hoarsely. “Alfred--America--say my name--liked you used to--”
He hesitated for a moment, then swallowed rapidly. “E-Engw--”
“Oh, you bloody git--” England’s eyes seemed to roll into his head for a moment, but he coughed loudly as they woozily focused again on Alfred. “I wanted you--to say--no--”
“England.” Alfred lowered his voice, kneeling by him now, anxiously. “Arthur--”
“I’m happy--you idiot--” England gave a last chuckle, and with his hand buried in Alfred’s fine hair, his eyes rolled up one last time and he went still. The visuals on the overhead from the satellites showed the oceans had swallowed up the island, and Alfred put his down his head to the edge of the seat.
--
He had a dream.
This time, he was standing on the same sloping hills from the Revolutionary War, but it wasn’t raining. It was nighttime, and there was no wet mud sticking to his boots. He hesitated, and began to trek along the hills, glancing at the trees that blew whispers into the night, branches rustling quietly.
There was a figure sitting on the hill.
“England?”
“Oh.” The figure tilted his head towards him, and smiled. Alfred felt his heart skip slightly when he saw that it was England’s complete face, and he hurried towards him, before stopping abruptly.
“It’s a surprise to see you here, Alfred. Sit down.”
“What are you--” He swallowed. “Are you real?”
“Dreams are real, and they are not real.” Arthur gave another rumbling chuckle, staring up at the stars distantly. “You know, I’m hurt. I heard you thought I hated you or some bollocks like that. That’s not true, is it?”
“Where’d you hear that from?”
“My fairies.”
“Your illusions.” For the first time in a long time, Alfred twisted his face into a weak smile. “They’re not real.”
“They’re real! And still real!” Arthur stabbed his finger into the air. “Oh, never mind. I’m disappointed in you, Alfred. I wouldn’t hate you. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I didn’t press the button.” Alfred sat down, and looked at his hands. “You--had to press the button.”
“I’m glad that you didn’t press it,” Arthur said. “Didn’t I say it before I croaked? I was happy, you bloody idiot.”
“Really?”
“There were times in the past where I thought you would kill me without second thought. But for you to give up being a hero for me--how can I be anything but happy?”
“Being a hero,” he mumbled. “Never occurred to me.”
Arthur reached out, and began to stroke Alfred’s hand, staring up at the sky distantly.
“You know,” he said conversationally. “The waters might go down. Or the people might return. I won’t be the British Empire anymore, Alfred, but I hope you’ll take care of me.”
“I miss you, Arthur,” he said.
“And that makes me very happy,” Arthur said.
“Hey,” Alfred said. “Is this just a dream?”
“Perhaps. But like I told you, I’m still in your heart. Don’t get too lonely when I’m so close. It’s irritating.”
“Then,” Alfred said, “Can we stay like this a little longer?”
Arthur looked fondly at him. “Of course.”
And they sat and talked quietly, about things that mattered and things that didn’t matter, and they laughed and argued and watched the stars, and when Alfred woke up, he no longer had the ring of bruises around his forearm.
and this
“What are you waiting for?” England folded his hands across his lap, composed and dignified. “Press the button.”
--
Sometimes, Alfred dreamed.
He used to tell Arthur about the roaming hamburgers who threatened to eat him instead, or vague monsters from underneath his bed, conjured on one Hollow’s Eve that never returned. But he would never tell Arthur about his real nightmares, the ones where he wasn’t the hero, and he would stand waist-deep in mud and blood, the butt of his gun resting against his hand, but no one left to shoot.
Now his dreams turned more towards the Revolutionary War, where the cannons resounded over his grassy slopes, rumbling beneath his very feet. The cold slick of rain on his face, his ragged uniform sticking to him as he stared down the barrel of the rifle, its sharp point close to his chest. England could have shot or stabbed, he would have died either way. But the affection in his eyes betrayed him, and he dropped his rifle into the splatter of mud.
“I can’t do it,” England always said, his slim shoulders heaving. The rain coursed down over his face, mixing over the tears of his face. He fell to his knees, and the blood on his white trousers melded with the dripping mud.
But that was always when the dream became twisted, fragmented, and Alfred was always surprised when England’s head snapped back up, and he always screamed and stumbled back when he saw that England’s face was disappearing in black ash, half his face still perfectly contorted in a wild smirk. The skin dripped off his white bones and the white bones turned black and Alfred screamed.
“But you did it, didn’t you, Al?” The gloved hand reached out to him, even as England crumbled away. “Oh wait--you couldn’t even do me that much.”
“No--I’m sorry--I’m sorry--”
“You betrayed me again, didn’t you, Al?” He always wished that England would stop calling him by that name, and his body always shuddered as the grip only tightened even when England was disappearing. He looked around for his soldiers, but they had all been replaced with other countries, their eyes cold, disapproving, surrounding him in a half-circle.
“You used to be so big, Al,” England said, and even his smirk disappeared under the black ash and the water kept rushing over him but the grip still felt like iron and cold on his arm.
He woke up with his right arm clenched around his left, leaving dark bruises. Nobody commented on those.
Nobody had the right.
--
He had been a child when he had asked the question, after the passing away of England’s King. It had been after the ceremony, and his hand was loosely wrapped around England’s hand, and though the spectators cried and wept, England’s face was dry.
“Do countries die?”
England looked down at him for a moment, bushy eyebrows drawing together in a moment of consternation. It had been a cold day, and a light drizzle was slowly dashing across the land.
“You’re too young to worry about that now,” England finally said.
“If we die,” he insisted, “What happens to us?”
“This isn’t something you have to think about.”
“You come home with wounds,” Alfred insisted. “If you keep going to war--will you die?”
“. . . No, Alfred,” England said, and then he peered into the sky, tipping his triangular hat upwards. “I suppose it’s time to tell you about it.”
“Do we die like humans?” Alfred asked in a small voice. So many had passed away from disease, and the cold, and starvation.
“In some ways. We are countries, Alfred, don’t forget that. We have a responsibility, and we must see it through. For as long as our people believe in us, we will exist. But if something should happen, we will--cease to be.” England gazed at a printing press shop.
“I don’t want you to leave me,” Alfred said in a small voice.
“I won’t,” he said. “Didn’t I say it? You won’t have to worry about this for a long time. A long, long time, my boy.” His hand brushed against Alfred’s hair. “And I can’t leave you, love. Even if I become nothing more than a relic of history--”
And here, he swooped down and picked up Alfred, swinging him into his arms. He smiled fondly at Alfred, and there were many times that Alfred wished that he had smiled back. “--I will always be in your heart.”
--
It had started on a bright, sunny day, when Alfred had been sitting with Arthur, Matthew, and Francis. Like always Arthur had tears in his eyes after they had a hearty round of insulting his scones, and they left the blackened pieces of dough on their plates as they talked about trivial matters, getting upset, laughing, listening in complacency.
A man in black, however, came to their table.
“Pardon the interruption,” he said in a low voice. “But the President requires your immediate presence.”
“Eh? Did I leave the faucet on?” Alfred stood up from the table, taking his jacket from the back of his chair. “Sorry, guys! But I need to go save the day again!”
“Don’t say again when you haven’t saved it in the first place, prat,” Arthur muttered, eating his own scones.
The walk back to the White House had been short, and the ride up the elevator even shorter. When he came to the Oval Office, he found the president sitting on the chair, looking solemn at the papers in front of him.
“Sit down, Alfred,” he said. To the Secret Service, he only nodded them away.
“What’s wrong?” Alfred fingered the thick pack of papers that had not been there the day before. “Is it something to do with global warming?” Those talks always were heavy and came compiled with data that reached the sun.
“The CIA has discovered a nuclear missile, and according to our information, it can destroy the world five times over.” Alfred stared down at the papers in front of him. He started to say something, but his lips were dry. He licked his lips and tried again.
“How… How confident--”
“It’s a fact, Alfred,” the president said firmly, but he could see the president’s hand tremble slightly as he picked up another paper. “We have determined the location of the warheads. The good news is that we can disarm them.”
“Then--that’s great!” Relief swept over him like a cold glass of water splashing over him. “Let’s do it!”
“The bad news,” the president said, “is the location.” He drew forward a map, which Alfred had used to look up the addresses of his friends and enemies alike.
He stared down at the black circle.
--
Ludwig had approached him. The war-scarred man sat beside him on the bench as he fed the small, fluffy yellow birds, that chirped for more of the bread crumbs.
“It was the responsible thing to do,” he said.
“… Yeah?” Alfred took another handful of bread crumbs, scattering them about. It felt surreal that the sun could still be shining and the clouds still floating. “I’m not sure if it was the right thing to do.”
“I hear my own brother, sometimes.” Ludwig stretched his muscled arms in the bright sun. “He calls to me from the other room. He tells me, ‘West! Are you drinking again? Take me with you, West!’” His sharp eyes grew somber.
Alfred watched as the fluffy birds chirped at Ludwig, obviously pleased by his familiar presence.
“I drink the most on those nights,” he said distantly. “So I can hear him more. I hear him the best on dark nights when I’m lonely. Sometimes he’s older, sometimes younger. Tells me to--” Here, he chuckled. “To straighten up so he could fix my tie.”
“They seem like good memories.”
“I see his death, too.” Ludwig passed a hand over his eyes. “He’s smiling. He always said that the only things he knew was--war. But he was wrong. How could hands that only knew war raise a child--?” He gave another short laugh, and Alfred pretended not to see the twisted hurt on his face.
“I’m sorry for taking up your time,” Ludwig said abruptly, rising up from the bench. He hesitated, and then gave a sharp salute. “People can say what they want about the country. But your brother was a good man.”
“… Thanks.” Alfred combed through his hair recklessly with his hand, unable to raise his gaze from the ground. Ludwig expertly maneuvered around the chicks and picked up one of them, who chirped in happiness on his shoulder.
“It’s brother’s chick,” he said to Alfred. “I take care of him now.”
“How do you know which one it is?” He peered at the sea of golden fur. “They all look alike.”
Ludwig chuckled. “How could I forget? He was my brother’s, after all.” His finger reached up to tickle the small bird. “And I can never forget brother.”
Alfred watched as Germany strode away, and then absently wrapped his fingers around the bruises on his arm.
--
The world organization meeting was different. It had started the same, messily crowding together, arguing, squabbling. But silence slowly fell as they realized the one who had called the meeting, usually the loudest of then all, only stood with his back to the room, facing the wall.
Even Italy sat still as Alfred turned back to the round table. It was round to show that all countries were equal, circling around the globe. But today, it was clear who was the leader of their convention. Alfred gazed on the map stretched on the billboard, and touched it gently. He had caught sight of himself in front of the mirror before he left. His suit was slightly crumpled, and there were bags under his eyes.
“We’ve received a report on a threat,” he said in a low voice, “that could destroy the world five times over.” He continued in a low voice, and the papers were spread to all the countries, who took them with worried hands. There were no shouts of accusations, cursing, crying. They were countries.
He finally came to the most difficult part, a heavy lead in his throat. “The good news is,” he said hoarsely, “that we can disable the firearms. The problem is the location.” He gently traced his finger along the map to a spot in the ocean. “We’ll need to drop the newest technology on this spot--and it should deactivate the threat.”
“Then--” somebody said.
Alfred cut them off, back turned to the room. “Then,” he said heavily. “the weight will make the water rise tremendously. And the United Kingdom will be swallowed by the ocean.”
--
“He was a terrible man,” Francis said. He idly picked at the paperweight on Alfred’s desk. “Never honest, always shouting, a terrible drunk. A crybaby.”
“He didn’t cry,” Alfred murmured.
“What was that?”
“Before he died. He didn’t cry.”
“He cried at all the wrong times.” Francis looked fondly down at Alfred. “Be proud of your brother. He died with dignity.”
“You talked with him a lot,” Alfred said. “Was he… scared?”
“Mon cher,” Francis said, “Let me put this straight. We shared some history, your brother and I--hundreds of years worth of history. But you knew him best. He loved you, was completely devoted to you. And you put up with his talks, his rants, his tears.”
“… Was he scared?”
Francis sighed, stroking his beard. “He wanted to protect you,” he said at last. “He wanted to live to protect you. So, mon cher, forgive me, but I will not answer that question.”
“Why not?”
“He would not have wanted you to know.”
Alfred bowed his head and looked at his hands, clad in gloves. He rubbed against his ring of bruises absent-mindedly, gazing distantly at the stack of unanswered papers on his desk. Francis leaned against the table, still, looking out the doors.
“He was a fun drinking partner,” he mused. “Fun to tease. Lonely, always so lonely. Never cute. But powerful. The way he was before the end--it sent shivers down my spine. Every inch of history in him, every battle won, every ship taken.”
“Do you ever wish that you were with him more?”
“We had a grudge, mon cher. You should not be asking me this question, by yourself.” Still, Francis tilted his head downwards, fingers running down the length of coarse, bristly beard. “But if I had a choice--to fight with him one last time--to see his crying face--”
“I should have stayed with him more,” Alfred murmured. “He was… lonely.”
“Power brings loneliness. All his colonies left him, one by one by one.” Francis plucked at the plant sitting on Alfred’s desk. “But he said he was happy to see them all grown now.”
“He always seemed to like me better as a colony,” Alfred muttered.
“He missed the days you were cute. But he acknowledged you as someone to fight beside.” Francis slowly stroked the petal of the flower. “He was a good man.”
“I wasn’t--” Alfred swallowed heavily. “I wasn’t dignified at all. I couldn’t even--kill him--with the dignity he deserved--”
“He wanted to protect you,” Francis said simply. “That’s all there is to it.”
--
The road to his storage wasn’t new to him, and nor was the dust that rose from the room when he opened the door. It was crowded as always, having been kept the same after Lithuania had came around to dust it. When he pried open the checkered box, he could still see the wooden toy soldiers, lined up in a precious row. He reached out to stroke the coldness of his faithful friends.
England had always returned to him with wounds, gaping wounds that occasionally even bled out of the tight, white bandages. His face had poultice, his arm in a cast, walking with a limp. He always appeared exhausted, but smiled when he saw Alfred, always petting him and holding his hand and walking him back to the house so they could play for a little while.
He had been a pirate, sailing across the seas to attack the ships and raid for gold. Reckless, dashing, brutal, he would only show his kind side to Alfred, allowing the small boy to play with his plumed hat.
England had been so big to him, then. Alfred fiddled with the toy soldiers for a bit longer, recalling the long shadow that stretched along the ground, that lean muscles on the shoulders that he rode upon, the tan of his skin against the confident flash of white teeth.
It suddenly occurred to him that he wouldn’t see England again.
The thought made him lose his grip on the soldier, and he felt something clatter on the ground. When he looked down, he felt a wave of panic when he saw the arm had fallen off the soldier.
“No,” he said. He bent down, and inspected the damage with trembling hands. It had been a clean split, jarring enough so that he could not successfully place it back together, and possibly not even with glue. He looked around, but it was only him in the room of memories. He stood up, soldier clenched tightly in his hands, and stumbled towards the door.
He scraped along something on the way, and looked down to see his rifle with the scratch mark.
“But you did it, didn’t you, Al?” England asked with the crumbling sneer. “Oh, wait--you couldn’t even do me that much.”
--
Sealand bashed into him with his head, making him lose his grip on his drink. His cup crashed on the floor, the porcelain smashing into shards and fine white powder. Alfred stared down at the growing puddle of dark liquid.
“You bastard!” Sealand screamed, and he suddenly found himself with a boy gripping onto the front of his jacket. “You were the only one who could save him! You could have saved him! Why didn’t you save him?”
“I--” Alfred opened his mouth.
“You let him die!” Sealand shook him violently. “You killed him! You bastard, you killed him! Now he’s never going to acknowledge me! You bastard! You---”
Sweden sharply pulled him back, yanking him by the collar. The light reflected on his glasses, so Alfred could only imagine his expression.
“Let me go!” Sealand screamed, flailing wildly. “You’re all thinking it, right? You all know what he did! He’s a murderer! You couldn‘t even do it right when he was going to die!”
“But you would have died,” Alfred said stupidly.
“Then you should have found another solution, you bastard!” But before Sealand could spew out more profanities, a strong hand clamped firmly around his mouth. Sweden hesitated, not troubled by the squirming, angry boy in front of him, but how to approach Alfred.
He knew that was what they were all concerned about nowadays. How to approach him.
“’m sorry.” Sweden gave a short bow, and then he was dragging Sealand away.
Alfred watched them leave, before he bent down to pick away at the shards. The strong scent of tea wafted up at him from the drink, and he sat for a little while, trying to inhale a bit more of England. It wasn’t the same--not nearly as strong--and no matter how many times he tried to make scones, they didn’t come out burnt enough, or disgusting enough.
But at that moment, he would choose England’s smoking black scones over even France’s gourmet food, even over his own hamburgers, because after he ate them, he would turn around and see England’s expectant face, eagerly awaiting an answer.
He idly picked at a shard. They were all thinking it, he thought. For some reason, this comforted him.
--
“When?”
England’s sharp voice cut across the room.
Alfred turned, not daring to look directly at him. His heart felt heavy and twisted and mangled, and he could barely even stand, and he didn’t dare to look to see if his knees were trembling. The atmosphere of the room weighed down on his shoulder as the countries gazed at him.
“The latest time for the decision will be in a week,” he said. “We--haven’t found any alternatives--yet--”
England abruptly stood up, chair scraping along the floor. “Then,” he said, “let’s begin the evacuation plans. I’ll be requiring your help--”
“But we’re not sure if that’s the only method yet!” Alfred blurted out, and he realized that he felt like a child all over again, pleading with England. All the way across the table, with England standing straight and tall, he felt helpless and lost.
“It’s one country against the rest of the world,” England said. “What other choices are there?”
“But it’s you!” Alfred cried, and he ignored the other countries, ignored their stares, ignored their bated breath. He felt like he was being drenched in agony.
“Don’t underestimate me, Alfred.” England smirked. “I have always controlled the oceans. It is only right for the ocean to take back their own.”
“You--” Alfred swallowed violently. Anger rose within him. “Don’t you even get it? You’ll die!”
England scoffed, mouth twisting up into a smile. “Don’t cry, Alfred,” he said. “You’re not a child anymore. Now, there’s no time to waste. What resources is everyone willing to offer?”
--
The hamburger was tasteless. But Feliciano ate his pizza happily enough, though he seemed to be able to sense the atmosphere a little bit, and toned down his loud chewing. The busy Italian restaurant was full that night, the customers a loud murmur in the background.
“Ve,” Feliciano said. “You must be very busy!”
“Huh?”
“With all the British people coming,” Feliciano said. “From the evacuations, ve.”
“Ah,” Alfred said. “Yeah. Busy.” He took another bite of his hamburger before putting it down in front of him. He took up his soft drink, but he could only feel the bubbles fizz against his mouth.
“Ve,” Feliciano said, this time sadly. “You must be sad.”
“Yeah.” There wasn’t much more to say to that.
“It’s okay to be sad. I was sad, too.” Feliciano sucked up his drink loudly. “I cried a lot, ve.”
“For England?”
“Ve.” He couldn’t tell if Feliciano was responding negatively or positively to his question, but felt no motivation to pursue it. “I cried a lot when I heard Grandpa wasn’t here anymore. And when my first love wasn’t here anymore. And when Prussia went, too.”
Alfred looked at him. Despite his peaceful looks, Feliciano contained depths of history within him, more than merely pizza and pasta.
“Have you cried a lot?” Feliciano tilted his head, simple as always.
“Not since--then.”
“That’s no good. You have to cry lots and lots.”
“People have different ways of coping.”
“But you’re not coping, ve.” Feliciano looked concerned. “Are you still worried? Because--”
“I’m not worried!” Alfred slammed his drink down on the table, hard enough to rattle the dinnerware scattered on the white napkins. The restaurant was still too noisy for him to be heard, so only Feliciano looked shocked and trembled under the weight. But still, he reached out with one hand, and gripped Alfred’s hand tightly.
“It’s okay,” Italy said softly. “I was sad, too. But he’s still in your heart, ve. And even if he won’t come back, we’re countries, ve. The world moves.”
“. . . What?”
“I fell in love with my first love again,” Feliciano said simply. “Maybe one day the waters will rescind, ve, and you might raise a child of your own, ve.”
Alfred clenched his other fist, and looked away. “I see,” he lied.
“Hey, you bastard!” Lovino knocked away a chair as he approached them. “That’s where you are! Me and Spain have been waiting!”
“Ve, I forgot~!”
“Don’t use that line on me, damnit!” Lovino yanked up his brother by the ear, looking disgruntled. He noticed Alfred, and scowled even harder. “And you can pay for the bill!”
“Sure.” Alfred reached into his pocket for his wallet.
“No~! Don’t be so mean!” Feliciano flailed wildly.
“Eh? What was that, you shitty brother?” Lovino huffed, but he pulled out his own wallet and tossed a few crumpled bills on the table. “Now, let’s go. Go on, damnit!”
“Ve~!” Feliciano scampered through the building, where the figure of Spain could be seen by the doorway. Lovino sighed angrily, crossing his arms across his chest sternly. He looked at Alfred and scowled again.
“Listen, you,” he said threateningly, grabbing Alfred by the collar. “Hey! Are you listening? Listen to me, damnit!”
“I’m listening,” Alfred said, pouting but waiting for the inevitable threat that came with interacting with Lovino’s brother.
“Spain’s got this saying. Ehh, what was that shitty--ah, something like, no hay mal que dure 100 anos. Do you even know what that means, you shithead?”
“I don’t speak Spanish,” Alfred pouted.
Italy scowled. “Fine! Then it kinda means, there’s no evil that lasts for a hundred years! So, damnit--just--damnit!” He tossed Alfred back down into the chair and stormed off, raging as always.
Alfred sat there, stunned for a moment, as he slowly realized that Lovino had been trying to comfort him. He chuckled darkly, and put his head in his hands. With the threat of the end of the world, the countries had begun to show their true colors--and their true kindness.
--
“Fix it, aru?” Yao examined the toy soldier.
“You have to fix it,” Alfred said urgently. “You have to.”
“Ehh… I’ll do my best, aru.” Yao placed it gently on his workbench, and raised his sleeves, tying them back. He reached for his toolkit, before glancing back at Alfred, who was intently watching.
“You look tired, aru.”
“Yeah. I haven’t really been sleeping well.” Alfred rubbed at his eyes. “Nightmares.”
Yao did not say anything, but began to repair the soldier gently. “I have medicine that will make you sleep better. All natural, no chemicals.”
“No, that’s all right,” Alfred said, sitting down at the nearby bench. The humidity made his shirt stick to his skin, and he took off his jacket. “Sometimes, I think the dreams are the only things that are keeping me real.”
“We are very familiar with dreams,” China said, beginning to slowly press the pieces together. “They are real, but they are not real. Remember the difference, aru.”
“I know they aren’t real,” Alfred said, looking down at his hands. “But at the same time--it’s--can I tell you about them?”
“If you wish. I will keep your dream safe.”
“It’s the war again,” he said. “The Revolutionary War. He’s going to shoot me, but he can’t, so he drops his gun. And then he--starts crumbling away--and I can’t do anything to stop it. I tried to reach him once, but he just disappeared in front of me. And he kept on--smiling.”
“A death with a smile is not a terrible way to go,” Yao said.
“But it’s not a happy smile. He’s--laughing at me, because I failed him. He blames me.” Alfred looked down at his hands. “He hates me.”
He did not see the fist coming at him, and was knocked back from the bench, astounded by the power. He collapsed against the wall, China hovering above him with a steady fist. There were distinct times when their identities as countries suddenly became aflame with realism, and this was the moment where Alfred could see the thousand of years of Chinese history etched into Yao’s face.
“Do not say that,” he said simply. “He did not blame you.”
“But I killed him--!”
“He is not the type to hate his own brother. He had older brothers before you, and he cried when they bullied him, aru.” Yao picked up the toy soldier from the bench and tossed it Alfred, who caught it safely. The wood had been put back together, only a faint scratch showing any remains of the injury.
“But his little brothers were precious, aru. He loved all of you, even if you left him.” Yao touched his shoulder, reminiscent of a former memory. “How could he hate his brother, aru? Especially one who stood beside him once more.”
“What about you?” Alfred looked at him angrily, rubbing at his reddening jaw. “Do you hate any of your brothers?”
China smiled sadly. “I am hurt, aru. But that is not the answer you are looking for.“ He suddenly knelt down, long black hair running down against the red of his silk shirt. One hand gently petted Alfred’s hair. “He did not hate you, child.”
--
It was Halloween. Usually, Alfred would have been shaking in fear for the incoming attack from Arthur. Instead, he sat in his room, Kiku sipping tea on their usual meeting.
“I miss him, as well,” the timid man said. “We had a good relationship.”
“Hey,” Alfred said, staring at his wall. “He was always talking to his--fairies. He must have been seeing things but--if they were real--can I talk to them today?”
Kiku placed down his teacup, sitting straight and tall. “Perhaps not.”
“Why not?” Alfred flushed. “Because they aren’t real?”
“Because they may not exist anymore,” Kiku said. “It is a strange thing when countries cease to exist. The English fairies may have disappeared as well.”
“… He was always just imagining them, anyway,” Alfred muttered. But there was a rotting hollowness in his stomach as he tried to think of what little more he had of his brother, what small remains that still surfaced under the tidal waves. He felt heavily drowsy, and allowed himself to doodle on the pad in front of him.
“Do you not wish to celebrate the holiday?” Kiku asked gently.
“Not this year.” Alfred glanced at the door. “It’s just like Germany said. Sometimes I just--expect him. To come bursting in here, laughing at me. I’m not--supposed to care so much, right? It’s--better--that he died! It’s better that the stupid bastard died--and left me--all alone--”
Japan sipped his tea. “You performed him a great dishonor in his death,” he said quietly, and it was enough to break Alfred’s maniacal rant. He quieted immediately, pen stopped in the black downward spiral.
“I--”
“But it made him very happy.” Japan put down his cup, and his dark eyes stared straight at Alfred. “Dignity and honor is important, but to die with a smile is honor and dignity combined.”
--
“Just say the word,” Alfred whispered. He had caught England into a small conference room. Neither of them had gotten much sleep, dark bags under their eyes. It was quiet, very quiet, and the morning sun was still rising through the grimy window on the corner. Alfred sat on a chair, while England sat on the green sofa, sipping his fragrant tea in his white cup. He looked tired, but he still smiled.
“Say what word?”
“If you don’t want me to do it,” Alfred said urgently. “I won’t.”
“Mutual destruction isn’t an option either. And since you haven’t found another solution, I can only assume this is the only viable solution now.”
“Don’t use those words on me!” Alfred breathed heavily. “But I can’t kill my own brother! That’s not what heroes do!”
There was a brief silence, and England chuckled darkly, placing down his teacup on a dusty table. He leaned against the sofa, idly running his finger down his black belt. He was dressed in his military uniform, the crisp darkness of it stark against the faded sofa.
“Heroes save the world,” England said, drawing on his black gloves. “Isn’t that what you’re going to do, Alfred? I’m proud of you.”
“I don’t want to kill you!” Suddenly, he was at England’s knees, gripping his wrists urgently. “Just tell me not to do it,” he said in a low, panicked voice. “And I won’t do it. I’ll die with you.”
“And what about the other countries?”
“England--”
Suddenly, England laughed, and leaned forward to place his fingers through Alfred’s hair, gently weaving them in and out of the bright strands. “Thank you, Alfred,” he murmured, “For thinking about choosing me over the world.”
Alfred sat on his knees, staring on the dirty rug.
“If I had a choice, I’d spend my last days with you--all of you--and we would laugh and be angry, wouldn’t we? I want to see your next birthday, I want to have one last drink, I want so many things. But I’m so glad to see that you’ve grown into such a fine man.” England gave his hair one last tussle, and then rose from his chair and walked away, leaving Alfred sitting on the floor, balling his fists against his thighs.
--
There was a funeral. Nobody recorded the names or planned the seating, but nobody complained, and there were only small murmurs and no shouts.
Alfred watched them trickle in, numbly. He could hardly feel anything, though his heart swelled and dropped abruptly as he waited for England to stride in, brows furrowed, loud, with his crying face, or maybe his drunk face. He waited, and waited, patiently.
Someone was giving a speech. He was too busy staring at the door to notice, but he suddenly found somebody poking him in the ribs.
“Will England’s family--brothers, children--stand?”
He found himself on his feet, none too steadily. He was the only one for a moment, but when he glanced back, he could see Hong Kong behind him, face complacent, holding a string of firecrackers. Then there came Seychelles, in a simple black dress and emotional face. Even Sealand stood up, his face still red from tears. And more and more stood, rising slowly but immensely like a tidal wave. Even Francis stood beside Alfred, and chuckled deeply into his ear.
“Our lonely man was loved, wasn’t he?” France smiled fondly. "As long as the world revolves--countries will always be connected."
--
It had come. The moment had come, and Alfred’s hand was trembling. The world conference table was silent, and he sweated. He knew that if he didn’t press the button, somebody else would, and he had insisted on doing the job, which was why his sweating palm was pressed against the black metal and his thumb rested against the large red button.
England sat beside him, without his usual cup of tea. He said he had drank plenty before, and no weak tea at a world conference would please him as much.
“What are you waiting for?” England folded his hands across his lap, composed and dignified. “Press the button.”
“Shut up! It has to be--ceremonial.”
“Ah, yes. Traditions.” He seemed to be waiting patiently, watching Alfred with too much fondness in his eyes to be natural. Alfred scowled at him.
“I’m going to press the button,” he said.
“Well, you should do it soon,” England said, tossing a glance at the multiple clocks on the wall. “There’s only a few minutes left.”
He was sweating. He was suddenly sweating heavily, under the collar of his heavy jacket. It was one thing to be a hero--but not this kind of hero, who would kill his own brother for the greater good. He hesitated, and looked around. The other countries wore somber faces, elegant, dignified, sorrowful.
His thumb ran along the edges of the red button. He would press it. He was a hero.
But his glance continued to fall onto England, who sat on his right. He wore his military uniform again, no particular awards hanging from his jacket. If anything, his outfit was simple, brighter than usual, but no less sturdy. He bent his head slightly to adjust his boots, his dusty blond hair falling over his bushy eyebrows.
“I’m going to do it,” he said loudly, and his voice broke across the room. He felt his shirt stick to him. “I’m going to do it--now!”
He was going to push the button suddenly, so quickly that he would feel no pain, but a sudden stab of nostalgia hit him across the chest. He could see England when they were younger, picking him up and swinging him around. He could see England returning back on a ship, bringing him toys, see him during the Revolutionary War, see him during the World Wars, see him wounded, see him bleeding, see him laughing see him drunk see him cooking
“America!” England slammed his palms against the table. “Do it now!”
“I-” Alfred wavered. “I can’t.”
His quiet admission rang throughout the room, and he shuddered. “I won’t, and you can’t--”
The clock ticked loudly, the time nearing before it would be too late to do anything. He slammed the remote down onto the table, and felt the hot tears threatening him. “I won’t do it!”
“You’re the hero,” England insisted angrily. “Press the button.”
“No--I can’t--”
The alarm suddenly rang, and he jerked to look up at the clock. And then he felt a soft click beneath him, and when he looked down again, England’s warm thumb was on top of his own finger, and he had pressed down at the button. There was a deafening silence in the room as the alarm abruptly fell silent, and England gripped Alfred’s arm tightly, staggering forward as he began to lose his balance.
The effects were rapid, and blood began to drip from his mouth, his face whitening considerably. But his face was affixed into a mad grin, the same one that he had seen when England had donned on his pirate hat.
“Don’t underestimate me,” England said hoarsely. “I am the British Empire. I have--sailed the seven seas, I have raided ships, I have planted my feet--throughout the world--” He was weakening, that was obvious, but that only lit the fire further in his bright eyes. At that moment, Alfred felt the might and grip of the empire against him, every inch of him a country, the history so real that he could have almost reached out and gripped it.
“England--” Alfred reached out to hold him steady, but it was unnecessary. His grip was tight against Alfred’s arm, the same place where Alfred would press upon his own bruises later. He trembled under England hoarse words, which resounded loudly in the room.
“The days of legends, the days of now,” he said. “We fought in the wars, achieved our goals. I am a gentleman.” His woozy eyes suddenly focused on Alfred, and he seemed saddened for a moment. “I’m sorry to have to put you through--this--”
“England!” This time, when he reached out to steady him, England only fell against his arm and back down into his chair. His breathing became heavier, rolling slowly even as the blood splattered across his collar and uniform and desk, lean body trembling in violent spasms.
“Hey,” England whispered hoarsely. “Alfred--America--say my name--liked you used to--”
He hesitated for a moment, then swallowed rapidly. “E-Engw--”
“Oh, you bloody git--” England’s eyes seemed to roll into his head for a moment, but he coughed loudly as they woozily focused again on Alfred. “I wanted you--to say--no--”
“England.” Alfred lowered his voice, kneeling by him now, anxiously. “Arthur--”
“I’m happy--you idiot--” England gave a last chuckle, and with his hand buried in Alfred’s fine hair, his eyes rolled up one last time and he went still. The visuals on the overhead from the satellites showed the oceans had swallowed up the island, and Alfred put his down his head to the edge of the seat.
--
He had a dream.
This time, he was standing on the same sloping hills from the Revolutionary War, but it wasn’t raining. It was nighttime, and there was no wet mud sticking to his boots. He hesitated, and began to trek along the hills, glancing at the trees that blew whispers into the night, branches rustling quietly.
There was a figure sitting on the hill.
“England?”
“Oh.” The figure tilted his head towards him, and smiled. Alfred felt his heart skip slightly when he saw that it was England’s complete face, and he hurried towards him, before stopping abruptly.
“It’s a surprise to see you here, Alfred. Sit down.”
“What are you--” He swallowed. “Are you real?”
“Dreams are real, and they are not real.” Arthur gave another rumbling chuckle, staring up at the stars distantly. “You know, I’m hurt. I heard you thought I hated you or some bollocks like that. That’s not true, is it?”
“Where’d you hear that from?”
“My fairies.”
“Your illusions.” For the first time in a long time, Alfred twisted his face into a weak smile. “They’re not real.”
“They’re real! And still real!” Arthur stabbed his finger into the air. “Oh, never mind. I’m disappointed in you, Alfred. I wouldn’t hate you. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I didn’t press the button.” Alfred sat down, and looked at his hands. “You--had to press the button.”
“I’m glad that you didn’t press it,” Arthur said. “Didn’t I say it before I croaked? I was happy, you bloody idiot.”
“Really?”
“There were times in the past where I thought you would kill me without second thought. But for you to give up being a hero for me--how can I be anything but happy?”
“Being a hero,” he mumbled. “Never occurred to me.”
Arthur reached out, and began to stroke Alfred’s hand, staring up at the sky distantly.
“You know,” he said conversationally. “The waters might go down. Or the people might return. I won’t be the British Empire anymore, Alfred, but I hope you’ll take care of me.”
“I miss you, Arthur,” he said.
“And that makes me very happy,” Arthur said.
“Hey,” Alfred said. “Is this just a dream?”
“Perhaps. But like I told you, I’m still in your heart. Don’t get too lonely when I’m so close. It’s irritating.”
“Then,” Alfred said, “Can we stay like this a little longer?”
Arthur looked fondly at him. “Of course.”
And they sat and talked quietly, about things that mattered and things that didn’t matter, and they laughed and argued and watched the stars, and when Alfred woke up, he no longer had the ring of bruises around his forearm.
and this