this used to be a fun house;

[wingborne]

The first time, America hadn’t been there.

They had split up into two groups. He didn’t remember who agreed on what, except he felt a vague feeling of guilt. Maybe he had split them up. Maybe he had been the loudest one who said they should split up. All he knew was that England loosely agreed to go along with Canada, and they split up amicably. And the next thing he knew, his little brother’s blood is smeared on the walls, and his older brother’s body is sprawled limply against the floor.

It was kinda stupid. It was really stupid, but he gathered up their bodies, and put them in the beds, like they would wake up. He told himself that he could still feel the flutterings of a pulse, and that it wasn’t just the phantom heat of their bodies, which had long sped away. He didn’t know what had happened, but he knew they couldn’t be dead. That would have been ridiculous. Russia, China, and France—they were still alive, in that room with the glow of the fireplace. They were all going to get out. America was a hero.

He was tired, though. A tired hero. His muscles ached and he was short of breath. The stress of being unable to rest anywhere was getting to his mind, and whenever he looked around, he felt the sensation of being watched, that a Gray was there, waiting for him around the corner. He had to conserve his bullets, but he was still strong. Stronger than Canada and England.

Prussia and Germany had to go on. He knew that a particular last attack had left him woozy, and even after stuffing a rice ball in his mouth, there was too much blood and his eyes were closing on their own. But he thought he could see the faint rising of breath of his brothers, and he wanted to stay with them.

He had never thought his family could die.

Canada, he was the smart one, the one nobody ever noticed. But he was smart and sharp, and America remembered meeting him when they were children, except not really. But Canada had always been there, just north of him, and the border lines always drawn. It felt like Canada had been there his whole life. And now his brother’s face was covered in blood and his hair matted to his forehead in red lining, and his breath didn’t feel like anything, even when America put his fingers an inch away from his mouth.

And England—and, England, he couldn’t die. It just didn’t make sense. Because England had always been there, with his broad back and sword on his belt. He’d seen him through wars, fighting and withstanding, enduring against all his losses, the immortality present in every breath. England was kinda stupid and really weird, and mega creepy, but he didn’t die. Except, now that America sat between them, he thought England looked kinda small and weighed even less, fitting into his arms easily when he carried the body over to the bed.

Italy had come. Offered him a chance to go with Germany and Prussia. And even though America felt weak in his limbs, he thought he might have made it with them. Might have made it out of the house. He was stronger than other people, he knew that, and Prussia’s sword had broken. But he was rooted to his spot, just by staring into the pale faces of his brothers. He was a hero. If there was even the slightest chance of them being alive, then he would fight for it. And if they were dead, then… he would stay with them.

He watched Italy leave the room, and tried to wipe the blood and tears from his eyes. His hands felt numb and distant, and he stumbled into England’s bedside when he reached for his gun again. He swallowed thickly as he stared into his face. He could almost convince himself that they were just sleeping, except the blood stained their uniforms and they didn’t react to anything. But still. Still.

“I’m glad that England is gone,” he said to the empty room. He searched for any signs of an angry pulse in England. “Except I’m kinda sad he won’t pay back his debt to me. He had a lot. But the world is better off without him.”

England laid peacefully on the table.

America thought he felt something wretched inside his heart. He would have been glad to laugh and poke at England’s forehead if England suddenly leapt up and strangled him. Maybe England would have looked at Canada, looked over Canada’s body, tell him that Canada was just asleep, and maybe he’d gently touch him to reassure him. Except England wasn’t moving, and even when America reached over to wipe the blood from his stolid face and bushy eyebrows, there were no more breaths within him, just almosts and could have beens.

The door burst open without warning, and the gray monster stood before him. He was alone in the room, he suddenly knew, alone without any other person. But he smiled recklessly, and drew his gun, because he was a hero. To die amongst his brothers would be an honor above all else.

-

The second time, Italy just kept pushing them away from the piano room. But, of course he had to visit the piano room. The hallway was mostly empty, and he pushed open the door easily. And he was surprised to see England, except not completely, because England always did that sort of thing, too, going where he wasn’t supposed to go. Except, America’s surprise turned to some sort of horror when he realized that England was bleeding, standing in front of the gray monster with his shoulder dripping and one of his eyes partially closed and holding his ribs like something had gone wrong inside him.

Funnily enough, the monster wasn’t attacking, but there were these weird rays of light that America recognized. He took a few steps forward and England was angry, as always, telling him to go away, but he wasn’t going to leave. It wasn’t like he really liked England, though. England was just creepy, and he was stubborn, and he spelled all his words wrong over and over again. He thought he could fight that monster off. Even if England was wounded and his breath came out in raspy short breaths, they could fight him off.

The rain tapped on the rooftop, and the monster loomed above them, big, hulking, strange. England’s magic was fading from the spell, disappearing in short bursts that stretched out longer and longer, and the monster strained against its binds. America knew he needed to stay. He was the hero. He was always the hero.

England turned to him, smiled sadly, and said that it was good not to die alone.

-

They didn’t get along well. But they weren’t averse to each other, and that’s why they sometimes got paired up, because England seemed more interested in the mission than in America, and they unfortunately had similar taste in taking risks. Except, England got his magic back, so it was natural that he went along to fight the monsters, and America was strong, so it made sense for him to travel to unexplored regions.

“See,” he told America, as they pushed aside the chairs in the room, “I told you magic was real. Just wait until I can use more of it. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Why? I’m way more useful than you.”

“I’ll turn into a magnificent angel—”

America opened the door and walked in first, leaving England trotting behind, muttering to himself. They were entering in a dark part of the tunnel, and he could hear Russia and China up ahead, squabbling amongst themselves. England was lazily bringing up the rearguard, occasionally glancing back into the darkness.

He didn’t think England liked him very much. Actually, he was never really sure where they stood with each other. Sometimes it was better, mostly it was worse. But England always enjoyed being vocal in disparaging everything that America did. It wasn’t like it hurt or anything, but it got really annoying really quickly, and America sometimes was just sick of it. Just because he thought some things were cool didn’t make him an idiot, but England always championed that America was the biggest idiot of them all. Like turning into an angel was much better.

“Go quicker, America. Don’t be so bloody slow,” England was telling him.

“I know, I know! Geez, don’t you ever shut up?” America turned, irritated, but he caught himself when he heard China’s shout, and Russia’s koling. It only took a moment to rush ahead, but England somehow got ahead of him. He guessed that he really had been going slower.

They turned the corner, only to face a hulking gray monster, standing in front of a rope ladder. The black eyes stared at them, and it had seemed to grow—bigger—than the last one, with his head enlarged and his small body now expanded into some muscular grotesqueries. America flinched, and drew out his gun. But England reached out to slap his hand.

“There’s no time! We’ve got to run!” he shouted, and just when America was about to protest, China and Russia pushed past him. England grabbed a fistful of the back of his jacket, and ran the same way. But, to America’s surprise, the monster was coming after them. But not in the lumbering way they usually did, this monster was quick, its leg muscles pulsing as it pounded against the floor.

“Damn! Damn, how did they—” England turned partly in horror, and it was enough for the monster to swipe at his back. He hissed, and the next thing America knew, he was being shoved forward ahead of him.

“What are you doing!” America stumbled in his steps, but he could see the door ahead of them. They were so close, and he knew Russia and China would be out there, ready, and they were so close—

“How did it get so damn strong?” England’s face looked pale, even against the poor light through the doorway. “We can’t take him out—we’ve got to trap him here—we’ve—”

The monster sped up again, moving like it was just a blur of speed, a smash of ugly colors, that again reached out to swipe them. America didn’t want to admit it, but England was right. With China’s leg banged up, and Russia’s arm twisted that way, they didn’t know if they could take the monster. America himself felt his chest growing weak, and he knew he only had one or two good shots left to go. There was just no place to rest. If there was only a place to rest.

“It’s all right,” England breathed. There was a subtle switch in his tone. “It’s all right, America. It’s going to be all right.”

“Yeah, I know it’s going to be—” But he was being shoved through the door, and then the door slammed shut behind him. America went sprawling into the white-tiled room, and when he looked up, Russia and China were standing there, weapons shakingly drawn, but not completely ready. Their faces were drenched in sweat, but their eyes were fixated at the metal door. There were some sounds of something being slammed against it, and then, Sectumsempra.

It took another moment to register, the chill running up America’s spine. And then he slammed his fists against the door, trying the knob, anything, even prying off the hinges. He hadn’t even stood all the way back up, on his knees, and he was shouting hoarsely through the door, telling England to let them back in, he could take them, he could take all those damn bastards, and Russia was dragging him back by the armpits, but he was still shaking furiously, screaming and thrashing, and it was because it had gone too quiet too quickly.

“We have to go,” China said.

England couldn’t die.

None of them could die. They were nations, all of them, and America punched China in the face and shoved Russia in the gut, because they didn’t understand. England had—a history of kings and queens, England had embroidery left to do, England had porn magazines still unread in his desk, England had his people relying on him and he relied on his people and he had a flag that flapped in the wind that sounded like a lion’s roar every time it whipped around.

It took the last of his strength to break off the knob, and he knew that he had no strength left in his wrist. He was as good as dead if the monster was still there, but he shoved open the door recklessly. But it was only darkness, darkness and blood that dripped from the dirt walls, and the monster was gone, but England was sitting against the wall, hands limply to his sides.

“England!” America shoved the door out of his way and reached him, trying to support his head, which rolled limply against the rock. To his relief, he found a faint pulse, and tried to sling England’s arm around his shoulder to drag him out of the tunnel.

“I think…” England’s eyes looked dim and unfocused. “I used… too much… magic…”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re going to be all right. Right?” And with his sharp glance, China hesitantly nodded, and Russia stood behind him, eyes dark and unreadable.

“You’re going delusional, Opium,” China said, intoning almost solemnly, “Let’s leave before anything else happens.”

“The rope is burned.” Russia glanced sideways at America, but America couldn’t tell what he was trying to say. “We need to go back and tell the others.”

“Yeah. Okay. Let’s go back. Right, England?” America tried to pat his face, but there was something different about his eyes that made him stop. He wasn’t blinking anymore, and the slight rise and fall of his chest had fallen to a stop. America patted his face again, harder, and then he was nearly slapping it, trying to get England to wake up. Because England was just asleep. “Come on, England. This isn’t funny. Come on. Wake up.”

Because they were all going to make it out of this stupid house alive. America knew that. America knew that it was kinda stupid of him to think England might be dead. But he still clutched at the limp body, and stared at the blood splattered across the walls.

-

“It’s full of books.” England’s hand brushed against the binding. “Let’s leaf through them. It might give us a clue.”

It was like a library, the bookshelves crammed together. America reached for one and flipped through it, but he found nothing interesting in there. He saw England intensely peruse a book, then place it back on the shelf, tapping out another one. The others had gone ahead to the piano room, and America had only stayed behind because he had a bad sensation. He couldn’t really tell what it was. He was probably hungry, but even the chili peper didn’t’ seem to do much good. He was tired, and he thought about going ahead with the others.

“Are you looking?” England scowled at him, appearing inches away from his face. “Don’t just bugger off into your own wonderland. Come on.” He reached for another book, to the left of America’s head, and America watched him flip through it as well. He flipped through a lot of books, head bent with some interest.

“You don’t always have to be so mean.” America crossed his arms over his chest. But England barely looked up from the words.

“I’m not being ‘mean,’ America. It’s called being realistic. In this sort of situation, I would have thought that you knew that.” England clicked his tongue in disappointment at the book, reaching for yet another one. He was methodical about it, moving right to left, scanning the books seriously. America watched him.

“Sometimes I get really sick of you.” America turned away to pick another book, weighing it in his hands without opening it. But at the silence, he sneaked a peek behind him. England was still standing there, but with a strange look on his face. It couldn’t have been hurt, because America knew it was a pretty obvious fact. It wasn’t like England wasn’t his brother or anything like that, but they didn’t get along. Fact. Not fiction.

“Yeah,” England said, but he sounded unsure. After another moment, he placed the book back onto the shelf. America hated feeling like the villain. He was the hero. Hero. Not villain. It wasn’t his fault that England was a jerk. It wasn’t enough if he was misunderstood. He had no friends because he was a mean old man, and he was jealous because America had lots of friends because he was actually nice to people. It wasn’t that hard. But he sometimes, maybe, wanted England to like him, too.

“But, you know…” England turned towards him reluctantly, as if he was going to tell him something he had never told him before. America’s interest piqued, and he glanced over at him. But he was surprised to see England’s hand freeze on the spine of the next book, and the next thing he knew, America was being shoved out of the way. He hit his head on the shelf and winced, but he saw England’s stomach cut open, neatly slicing through uniform and skin and bone.

“Expecto patronus!” England’s hand flew open, and the phantom lion pounced through the air, snarling in his throat. His claws slashed at the monster, which faded away. The lion circled the empty area, fur bristling. He commanded a majestic air, a feral beast that prowled gracefully but powerfully. America accidentally caught his eyes, and he saw something in the white pupils that sprang a chill down his spine. The lion faded away into the air.

“It… doesn’t hurt,” England explained, blood on his lips. His hands clutched at his stomach, holding onto his insides. “It really—it really doesn’t hurt.”

America bent down, hands feeling numb. The cut had been deep, but he couldn’t see through the blood that squeezed through England’s fingers and splattered onto the floor obscenely. He thought he could see the pink of intestines against the raw broken bone, but he couldn’t be sure. England wasn’t letting him look at what was inside of him.

“I’ll bandage you up,” America said. It came out hoarser than he intended. “Italy has the—flag, we can rip that out for bandages. I’ll bandage you.”

“That… that sounds good.” England had paled into a sickly white, lighter than the papers of the books, than the color of the room. They were both liars. America didn’t want to lie. But England lied all the time, and he was doing it now, shoulders twitching as he tried not to writhe in pain.

“I’ll get him now. You have to stay here. And be alive.” The last part sounded absurd, even to him, but he needed to say it. Keep alive, England. Don’t die.

“Yeah.” England’s eyelids slowly closed. “I just… just need a cup of…”

“We’ll get out of here. I’ll get you a cup of tea. I mean, it stinks, and it tastes really gross, but I’ll get you it.” America watched as England’s shoulders relaxed, hand falling away from his stomach. It left a bloody handprint against the white floor.

“And I’ll make myself some coffee. I guess we can have it together. I mean, I don’t like having stuff with you, but we can have it. That’s okay, right, England? Right?”

-

“You’re making too much noise.” Germany turned his head at them, frowning in his usual way. Prussia was a little ahead of the group, scouting the corners, tense at every step. Now, those two were brothers. America didn’t admire them, not really, but there was something about how Prussia leaned on Germany, or how Germany talked in a low voice to his brother, that made them seem like real brothers.

Not like England, who scowled a little at being scolded by Germany. Not like stinky England, who thought that just because he couldn’t sleep the same time every year, gave him the right to crash his parties and give him bad gifts. And his gifts were always bad, obnoxiously so.

America turned his thoughts away as they continued down the stairs. There was a darkness over their group, after China and Japan had died. But they weren’t really dead, he reminded himself. Just really asleep. They must have been really asleep. Italy had looked heartbroken and wanted to go with Germany, just to see, he insisted, but he was instructed to stay behind with France and Russia to guard the bodies, in case they woke up. Or, at least, not to be eaten. But America’s sudden mortality weighed heavily on his limbs.

“But you should tell me what’s wrong,” England muttered to him, hand over the banister. “Are you worried about Japan? He’s going to be all right. He’ll pull through.”

“We shouldn’t die,” America said. He searched for words, watching Germany’s back. “We’re nations. I mean…”

“Nobody is going to die. We’re getting out of here, all of us, alive.” England’s voice carried a tone of finality, but it wasn’t enough. It really wasn’t enough, not against Japan’s drawn-out breaths, and not against China’s heavy weight as they tried to pull him from the wall.

America knew about death. His presidents died. Soldiers died. Humans died. But he couldn’t die. He had his citizens. His citizens had him. But he thought, maybe, it was a little more selfish than that. He had never really thought about it, because he knew he was going to be powerful forever, but he thought about the television shows he wanted to watch. The new fall line-up. Or the football games that were coming out. He wanted more Monday nights falling asleep on the couch, and he wanted more from everything. The house seemed to close in on him, claustrophobic.

England scowled, face slightly red, eyes darting towards him. “You need to stop worrying. You’re not going to die. I won’t let you.”

“You won’t let me?” America shoved him on his shoulder. “That’s a stupid way of saying it. I don’t want to die.”

“You’re not allowed to. It’s just—” England hesitated. “Never mind.”

It didn’t look like England was going to say anything else, so America turned the corner. But he stepped back, right into England’s face, and even as he listened to England’s strangled sounds of indignation, he could only stare at the gray monster ahead of them. It seemed like it had gotten bigger since they had last met, its misshapen head oddly small against the hulking body. It was disgusting, and America already felt his hand going to his gun.

“Don’t worry, West!” Prussia drew his sword. “We can take him!”

“I don’t believe we have a choice.” Germany whipped the floor, giving a sharp crack across the room, and then charged forward. But this time, it was strange. Even as Prussia tried to slice through the weird monster, his sword sounded like it was bouncing off metal, and the whip seemed just as useless against the monster’s new muscles. And suddenly, Prussia was flying back, crashing into America and they both fell to the floor, Prussia wheezing on top of him.

“What the hell!” Prussia shouted, but when he tried to stand up, his legs gave out from under him. He had an unhealthy sheen of sweat over his forehead. He must have still been tired from the last round of monsters, and America knew what he had to do.

“I can do it,” he said, and pushed Prussia out of the way. He barely had time to touch his gun when the monster suddenly flew at him. It came faster than before, he realized, and even though Germany shouted, and tried to whip him, but the monster, with the color of rotten scones, was too strong. It smashed at America’s head, and America found himself spitting up blood on the floor.

“How did it become so strong?” Germany gasped, but the monster reacted too quickly and knocked him backwards, as well. It began to reach for America again, and his knees felt too numb to move. He had to move. He couldn’t die here. He had things to do. He had shows to watch. He had to move. Move. Move.

The monster was suddenly flung back, and a glow of light stunned him to the floor.

“Go!” England shouted. He was at America’s side, prying him off the floor. “Germany, get Prussia! We’ve got to go!”

The image of Japan’s face floated to his head, and America felt cold and strangled. Why wasn’t he strong enough? There was something wrong. Something bad was going to happen, but he didn’t know what. He thought that he should know. But he grabbed England’s hand, suddenly, and he felt numb and cold.

“You’re coming with us,” he said, frantically.

“There’s no time! Only my magic is powerful enough to stop him, and—”

“He’s right.” Germany’s face was white and shining with sweat, but he held up his brother and stared at the stunned monster. “Nobody is leaving. England, hold him still. We’ll attack him.”

“Yeah, eyebrows. Leave it to us.” Prussia’s sickly smile reassured nobody.

“I can’t hold him for long,” England said, staring down at his hands. Using the back of his sleeve, he wiped away the blood that covered his eye. “Just—ten seconds, maybe—”

“Ten seconds is enough. Even two would be enough,” America said, smiling recklessly. “Let’s go!”

He didn’t give enough time for England to protest, and charged forward. He knew Germany was backing him up, and Prussia behind him with his sword. For some reason, he felt relieved. Like, with this plan, things could finally go right. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was just relief to know that England wasn’t going to be an idiot about all this. Maybe the fact that he could be the hero had something to do with it. All he knew was that even if the monster didn’t seem to notice his shots, it was better than nothing.

“I can’t—” England’s hands clutched at the air. “I can’t—hurry—”

“Just a little longer,” Prussia shouted at him. His sword smashed at the monster’s head, trying to find any weak point. “Just hold on a little longer!”

Germany drew back his whip and hit the monster’s forehead. And then it was over. America felt a wave of relief wash over him to see the monster disappear from its magical binds, which also disappeared into the thin air. He turned, breathing heavily, back to England.

“There,” he said. “There, we did it. Together.”

“… Yeah.” There was something different about England, though he couldn’t tell what. He didn’t seem enthusiastic about breaking down the monster, even though Germany and Prussia were clasping hands over it. Like real brothers. But when America held up his hand to high-five him, England ignored him. He was still staring at where the monster had been, his face drawn and pale, as if he was in shock. And even though America knew that he should be thankful for England’s help, he felt a sense of bitterness. They couldn’t even pretend to get along like brothers.

“Let’s go back,” Prussia said, holding his rib and panting. “We can tell the others that this hallway is secure now.”

“That may not be the case,” Germany cautioned, though he was already moving back down the hallway. “Nobody said there was just one here.”

America didn’t know why he felt a chill run down his spine, or why he turned to England. Even though America had already taken some steps to follow them, England was still staring at the spot, not moving. It felt like an irritation at the back of his mind, but he still couldn’t tell the real problem. But just when he was about to call out England’s name again, he saw the semblance of another monster emerge out of the darkness, a little to the side of England.

“Watch out!” he yelled, and Germany and Prussia both turned from down the hall. But England only seemed to turn towards America’s voice, and it was something about his eyes, America realized coldly, that had been off. His eyes were unfocused, and even though his face was tight, there was something guilty about his expression. He should have seen the monster. It had been within his line of sight, but America suddenly knew something, something he couldn’t voice, when he saw England hold out his hand, as if trying to find the wall.

The monster reached out with its ugly hand for England’s head.

-

England and France were arguing. America lingered a little behind them, scowling as checked out the smaller bedrooms. France was suggestive at the beds, and England retaliated by stuffing pillows into his face. America lifted up the carpets where he could, but he was a little tired of the old men fighting, so when France went to relieve himself, it was good to have some peace and quiet.

Except England, apparently bored without the friction, turned towards him. “Bloody hell, that bugger always stays the same. In this sort of situation, too, no less.”

America rolled his eyes. “You guys are really old.”

“Where did that come from?” England scowled, mood darkening. “If anything, you’re just a child.”

“Don’t treat me like one.” It felt like his words had some meaning to them, a meaning that he couldn’t understand. “I don’t want to be coddled by an old man like you.” He didn’t want to be coddled. Didn’t want to be protected. He was the hero. Hero. Not bystander.

“I don’t treat you like one. You’re not like the cute America I knew. Besides, I don’t protect you at all. You could go die for all I care.”

“Go to hell, England.” But America slumped against the wall, crossing his arms against his chest and waiting to hear the flush of the toilet. He still felt resentful towards England, even though he didn’t seem to have done anything wrong. Just be annoying. As usual. Useless. As usual. America watched him rub his fingers together. There were some flickerings of spark, but it quickly fizzed out.

“I’m running out of magic,” England said, noticing him. “I think I only have enough for one good spell left. Once that bastard’s out of the loo, we can get back.”

“You used too much.” He felt irritated. England should know better. But he was the one who supported them, the one who held down the monster and sometimes slayed down the monster when needed. Of course he’d run out of magic, eventually. Just like now, with the way the magic flashed and fizzled, barely enough to rest in the palm of his hand.

“Maybe.” England stiffened suddenly, turning down the hall. “Do you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

“I don’t know. Just—cold.” England shook his head. “It must be my ima—”

The monster appeared out of nowhere. Out of fucking nowhere. It materialized, suddenly, with his oversized forehead and black soulless eyes, and it reached out with his hand it smashed both of them with its weird magic, and America felt like his life was draining out of him. He twisted around, and felt relieved to see England managing to sit up, turning around to face the monster. There was no time, America thought, but he still tried to reach for his gun. The monster was coming again for the second round, and the gun was in his holster, but he had to get it out, and—

He heard England shout something, like protego, and he wondered briefly why he was shouting out a sauce, and then the monster smashed into them again. It didn’t hurt. He wondered if it was because it hurt so much that it didn’t hurt. But all he saw was a flash of white light, and then France was there, shouting and jumping with his sword. It must have been enough, because the monster disappeared, even as France panted and leaned on his knees. It was weird, because usually France just did weird healing things. America thought something must have weakened it.

“Ah,” France said, and he knelt by England’s side. America finally noticed that England was lying still on the floor. He could see the rise of breath, but it was shallow, and England wasn’t trying to sit up.

“You take… a fucking long… shit…”

America crawled towards them, enough so he could hear France laugh brokenly. “Ah, yes, it was a very good one. Is that the way to speak to your savior?”

“Savior my… my fucking arse, it was… it was my spell that…” England’s eyes were flickering. “My spell… bounced off… the shield, and…”

“You cast a shield?” America had finally reached his side, and his pants were wet with the blood from the floor. "You cast a shield only on me?"

"Not... Not enough... magic..." He watched as England turned his head, scowling faintly at him. It suddenly felt too cold, and he wanted to reach out and touch England, but it was too late. It was suddenly too late. He had wanted to tell England things, and he didn’t even know what. Maybe that he ate the rotten scone, after all. Maybe to tell him that his cooking still sucked.

He had so many things he still wanted to say.

“This doesn’t… prove your… point.” England reached out and grabbed his jacket violently. “Didn’t do it because you’re… little… you’re too big to be…” His last words were cut off when a sudden cough of blood, and France reached out with his handkerchief to wipe the blood away. America balled his hands into fists onto his knees, and watched him die. He sat there and watched his older brother die, the useless hero. He felt angry and betrayed.

He wanted to say something. He was running out of time. In those final seconds of England’s life, he thought that he wanted to tell him something important. But it was too late, and he couldn’t intrude, because England was dead and France had the sad look on his face, the sad look that Italy had gotten after Prussia had died, and it was all going wrong.

-

“How many fingers am I holding up?” America thrust out his two fingers, but England stared at them, unflinchingly. He licked his dry lips, as if trying to answer, but the sad look on his face said that something had been lost. It was a guilty expression.

“I’m sorry,” England said.

America didn’t give him time to answer. He reached out and shoved all the books off the shelves, and kicked it. His foot ached, and his blood boiled. He caught sight of Italy’s look at the end of the room, a look of almost—calculation, as if trying to figure out how England’s eyesight calculated into all of this—but when he looked again, Italy just looked solemn and sad.

“It’s okay,” Russia said. “The monster is dead. We can move on.”

“It’s not about that!” America shoved the bookcase over, where it fell loudly. His heart pumped even faster after he saw England flinch at the unknown noise, faster, angrier, louder. “Why do you always do that? You—I told you to conserve—”

“We can still go on,” England said. He said it too quickly. “I don’t have enough magic to do much, but, with what little I have, it should be enough. Maybe not enough for even two seconds, but it’s enough.”

“He’s right,” Canada said. “Everybody else can go first. I’ll help him find the way.” He reached out for England’s hand, and America watched as England blindly took it, eyes unfocused on a distant wall.

“I can do it.” America roughly took his hand, still damp with blood. Surprisingly, England didn’t say anything about treated in that way. He didn’t say much at all, the guilty look drawing low on his face. America gave Canada a look, which he understood.

“Then,” Canada said, “let’s go.”

America waited until they had gone out of hearing distance before he began to drag England behind him. He knew his grip was too tight, and that he was walking too fast, but England didn’t say anything, merely allowing his hand to be limp. His steps were short and shuffling, unsure of every corner and every turn.

“You’re an idiot,” America said.

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“Yeah? Okay, then, who did you do it for? I was the only other one in the room!” America let go of his hand and stepped away. It was a cruel thing to do, and he almost felt guilty when he saw England try to grasp at his hand again, only to find thin air. Unable to move, England tried to turn his head towards the sound of his voice.

“It wasn’t like that,” he said in a low voice, “America, don’t do this. Not now.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed!” America took another step away. “I’m not a kid! I could’ve protected myself!”

“You were hurt! You couldn’t even pick yourself off the ground!” England thrust his hand into the air, stepping wildly into the wall. His eyes were open, but it was the unfocused look that hurt the most. The way they didn’t see anything at all.

“I don’t need your protection!”

“I wasn’t coddling you! I was—bloody hell, just fuck off.”

“You’re blind,” America said, and he knew it was cruel, crueler than he usually said anything. But the anger boiled and bubbled into his mouth like scalding water. “If I leave you here, then you can’t go anywhere. Just gonna sit there and be sitting duck for the next monster.”

“Fine. Fine!” England took another step. America didn’t move, but watched the change in England’s face, anger fading into loss. He groped the air around him, but there was nothing. America watched him as he removed himself from the wall, only to stumble back after a few steps in the opposite direction.

“America?” England’s voice seemed small in the large hallway. “Are you still there?”

Not used to his lack of vision, England took a few more wobbly steps. It was in the right direction, but his steps lacked the confidence that he usually carried around with him. America watched him for another moment, then he stepped forward and abruptly took his hand. England didn’t say anything, and neither did America. He just felt strange, holding his brother’s hand, and leading him to the room with bloody handprints on the wall.

-

Only England had died.

The key was in Italy’s hand. They were grouped around, loosely, and America stood next to Canada and Japan, because it almost made him feel almost okay. But it wasn’t, because England had used the last of his magic on the last defense, and his body was inside the library, surrounded by books, a poor memorial and a worse funeral.

They were finally getting out.

They were finally going to be freed from the house, and all America could think about was that England’s favorite flowers were roses. He had an entire garden full of them, red ones and white ones and yellow ones, and sometimes when America went up to tell him to play some video games with him, he’d see England out in the garden in his loose shirt and oversized straw hat, watering his garden and looking almost peaceful. And sometimes he’d invite America inside, out of courtesy only, he would lecture, and his house was just too big for him. It was big, and wide, with too many white walls that felt uncomfortably blank, and it was always a little bit cold.

Except now, America wouldn’t get to be invited to his house again.

All his memories were crashing together, the time when he was a child and England picked him up and kissed his nose until he couldn’t stop giggling, or when England was yelling at him for eating all the ice cream in his house but England always bought more and it was always suspicious that he never seemed to eat any for himself, keeping food in his refrigerator only for visitors, or the time England gave him socks for his birthday when he really wanted the new toy coming out and they were even really boring socks and not cool hamburger socks.

He knew Canada was trying to tell him that it was all right. And he knew that he wasn’t the only one who missed him. He was selfish and greedy, and not acting like a hero at all, but that was all England’s fault. England was the one who took away his hero status. England was the one who decided that he would stay behind. It was all England’s fault.

But at that moment, all he wanted was to eat a shitty scone.

Italy held the key in his hand, and Germany was telling him that England was just in a very deep sleep. He looked solemn and tired, and none of them looked any better. They were battered and they were lost, and England was dead.

But it hurt. Looking out the windows suddenly hurt, even if the rain had cleared up. It felt painful to see that the sun still shone, and the grass was still green, when England was gone from the world. That he wouldn’t come back. That perverted gentleman bastard wouldn’t be at the next meeting, arguing with France, drinking tea, serving shitty scones. America wondered if he would have to go to England’s house. If he would have to clean up everything that remained. Have to go through the pictures of England’s entire family. Wondered if he would have to be the one to tell all his brothers and all his sisters that the hero had failed.

He had been so close.

England had been so close to living, and now he was dead, and America wiped his nose angrily, because he wasn’t crying. The world was simply blurring around him, but he wasn’t crying. He wasn’t a child, who wanted England to hug him and hold him and tell him things would be all right. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want that at all.

“It’s not good enough,” Italy whispered.

-

“We have to save England,” America whispered. His hand was loose around Italy’s wrist, but he meant it. Italy looked solemn, as if trying to think through something that had been thought through over and over again. America swallowed, and tried to think up a way to make it sound heroic.

“Okay,” Italy said. His eyes seemed sad.

“Okay,” America repeated. “Okay. I’m going to be a hero. I’m going to save him this time.”

“Yeah.” The smile that Italy offered him was weak, but America tried not to think about that. He only wanted to save England. He knew what was going to happen in the next room. England was going to use too much magic trying to protect him, and he would die. But with Italy’s help, that wouldn’t happen. England was going to live. America was finally going to be the hero.

He took a deep breath, and stepped into the next room. The dawning feeling of a chill came to him, and he was nervous. England seemed unconcerned, talking loosely with France. But he wasn’t the one who had the memories. No, England died quickly, so he wouldn’t remember what America had seen. Whenever America closed his eyes, it was like a thousand images of England’s death came flooding to him, enough to make him sick. But this time, it wouldn’t happen. Even if it meant his own life.

When the monster came through the door, he was ready. Italy was ready, too.

He just wasn’t ready for Italy to die.

Everything happened quickly. He couldn’t even tell what the monster was doing. If anything, it seemed to have grown stronger, swifter, and even when America brought it down, he was panting heavily. But when he looked down at his feet, Italy was sprawled on the ground, not moving. Germany was shouting, Prussia was yelling, and Japan was already by his side, swiftly. It was his fault. Italy’s death was his fault.

He turned, slightly, just in time to see England kneeling beside Italy and trying to support his head away from the sticky bloody floor. So England was alive. Italy was dead, but England was alive.

What sort of choice was that?

-

They were sitting, together, in a small room, clocks cracked, numbers spilled on the floor, key, door locked, fireplace, Italy, books, piano. America rested his knee against England’s, who was bleeding out his life peacefully on the wooden floor. He couldn’t remember why they were alone. He couldn’t even remember who was dead. Maybe they had all gotten out, leaving them behind in the time loop. But he couldn’t remember.

“I’m a little tired,” England murmured.

“I wanted to be a hero.” America curled into his thick jacket. He tried to ignore it, tried not to remember all the times that England promised him that he was only going to take a little nap, and then never woke up again. “Why can’t you just let me be a hero?”

“Because a gentleman is better than a hero.”

“That’s a stupid excuse.” America licked his dry lips. Only the steady dripping of blood echoed through the room, disrupting his thoughts, until he could only gather broken fragments. “Why do you do that? You don’t even like me. You just yell and you’re cranky and you have sucky food.”

“… I never said I didn’t like you.” He felt England touch his hair, with his wet sticky fingers, and then let his hand limply fall to his side again. When he looked down at his own arm, he saw that it was twisted and broken, bones protruding from the skin.

“You always act like it.”

“It’s the way I am. But I still love you.”

He hadn’t been expecting the last words. They must have looped twenty, thirty, hundreds of times, and he had never heard that. He stiffened suddenly, so that his knee fell away from England, and he could feel England shifting next to him, turning his head at him with his blank half-lidded eyes. It took another moment, but he heard England scoff.

“You didn’t know that?”

“How did you think I’d know?” America said it too loudly, but his face was aflame. He was glad that England couldn’t see him. He was sure that his ears were burning.

“I don’t know.” Even though England seemed to reluctantly accept that answer, America didn’t think he could. It was obvious. All those times that England had died were pieces of the same puzzle, and America had always done it wrong. He stared down at his arm, horrified, but not at the grotesque sight. He felt England touch his hair again, gently.

“I do love you,” England said groggily, and America suddenly knew that his time was running out. “I like you. I mean, you’re my brother, idiot.”

“You never act like it,” America whispered. “You’re really mean.”

“Am I?” England slowly rested his head on America’s shoulder. His breathing was coming erratically, now, and it was the sign that America knew too well by then. He stared at the table. He hated England. He hated him, because he always died, and he always left him alone with his guilt. Guilt of not being a hero. Guilt of not being a good brother.

“Yeah,” America said, throat dry. “Guess it doesn’t matter now.”

“I just wanted to be liked.” Shallow breath. Silence. Silence. Shallow breath. Silence. America’s nerves waited for the next breath. He was holding his own, waiting, for England to keep on breathing. Time after time, he sat there, and wished hard for the next breath to come.

“That doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense here. I shouldn’t have asked you to come,” America said miserably. England’s breath fell, and fell, and fell.

“I don’t mind,” England whispered. “I was a little happy.”

“That makes even less sense.” America felt the weight on his shoulder seem to grow heavier. “But, hey, England. You know I… I kinda… lo…” It was a shameful thing, he thought, that he couldn’t even say the words even when his brother was dead. He reached over with his good hand, and closed England’s eyes. Then he closed his own, and waited for the monsters to come out from underneath his bed.

-





“Hey, England!” America jogged down the hallway, where England had finished a short scuffle with France. The world meeting had just finished, and people were breaking up, grouping off. He could see Italy heading off with Germany, chatting with him warmly. Through the blurry window, it almost looked like he had a sad look in his eyes.

“What is it?” England turned, scowling deep enough so that his eyebrows seemed to form one ugly bridge. America tucked back a chuckle because he had something really important to say.

“Some of us are going out to see if there’s really a haunted mansion out there. You’re coming with us,” he said, “and I invited all the others already.”

“What?” England looked struck. “You should invite me first, you git!”

“Huh? Why?” It was a very curious thing. “You always ruin road trips. I mean, first you say that we’re really irresponsible, and then you lose everything…” America waved his hand around for the added effect, only to have England slap down his hand.

“That’s not true!” But of course it was true, making England flush and look down at his shoes, as if his shoelaces had come untied and he was very interested in that.

“But you have to come, anyway. It’ll be fun, even if it’s with you.”

“What if I had something to do?”

“You never have anything to do.” America grew quickly bored of the trail of the conversation, so he bounced on the balls of his feet. “Come on, you’re going.” And he was self-assured that England would go. He always did go, trailing behind him with a somewhat lost look on his face. This time, though, England wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“But you’re afraid of haunted houses,” he finally said. “You hated it when I read those horror stories to you.”

“I didn’t!” Why did the old man have to bring up everything about his past? America tried to hurry along the conversation, away from the nostalgic childhood memories. “But it’s kinda cool, right? A hero never runs away.”

“And you’re no hero.” England still seemed indecisive. “No, it’s just… I don’t know. You were always afraid of the monsters underneath your bed, even when I told you they didn’t exist. And you wouldn’t go to sleep unless you got to sleep in my bed.”

“That never happened!”

England obnoxiously leaned closer to him, with an uncomfortably happy look on his face. “Because you knew that I would never let anything hurt you.”

“I said that never happened! We’re leaving in a few hours, so get ready by then, okay?” America spun on his heel and ran a little distance away. When he looked back at the corner, he saw England still standing there, with a small smile, as if he had been happy to be invited at all. At that moment, America wanted to say something, something important, and it was like the moment hung in the air. He would only have that second to say it, and his words were in his throat.

But he waited too long, and England turned the corner and left.

America hesitated, then turned around back to his room. It probably wasn’t important, anyway, he tried to tell himself. He didn’t even know what he was going to say. And even if it was important, he thought, he would have all the time in the world to say it.